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ROSE-DE-NOEL 


BEING THE CONTINUATION OF 


“CONRAD DE VALGENEUSE 


BY 

ALEXANDER DUMAS. 


Translated by Mary Neal Sherwood. 


Copyright, 1900, by George Monro’s Sons. 


n 


NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNRO’S SONS, PUBLISHERS, 

17 TO •v>7 VANDEWATER STREET. 



1840—1900 


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SOOTHINO SYRUP 


Lit 



O, // ^ 63 


.f CoryfUMfe 


QUCUu2, /fiX) 


ROSE-DE-NOEL, 


•SeCONO COPY, 


ClIAPTEB I. 

THE HUE D^ULM. 


The rooms of Mme. de Marande were, as our readers al- 
ready know, on the second floor of the right wing of the 
Hotel de la Rue Laffltte, or d’ Artois, according as we 
are expected to call the street by its present name or by 
that it formerly bore. There we will leave Jean Robert 
and Mme. de Marande, from a motive to which tlie most 
fastidious of our readers can make no objection — ^and the 
doors of these rooms were carefully locked between the two 
lovers and ourselves. 

We will, therefore, follow the dreaming poet whom we 
have named Ludovic. 

He reached the Rue d’Ulm. 

Had any one asked him how he had come, and through 
what streets he had passed, Ludovic would have been greatly 
embarrassed. 

Through the half-closed blinds of the rooms occupied by 
Brocante, Babolin, Phares, Babylas, and his companions, 
Ludovic saw a gleam of light. This light augmented or faded 
away by turns, showing that some one was moving about with 
a candle in his hand. 

Ludovic went up to the window, and looked through a tiny 
aperture with the air of a man who is familiar with his sur- 
roundii^gs. But Ludovic was unable to see any one. He 
was certain, however, that Rose-de-lsrocl had not yet ascended 
to the entresol, for nothing indicated her presence; the night- 
lamp was not lighted, and the rose-tree that bore her own 
name was not in the window. She was in the habit of plac- 
ing it there when he cam6 in, as Ludovic had positively for- 
bidden her keeping j)lants and tlowei’s- in her sleeping-room. 

As he could see nothing, Ludovic listened. 

The Rue d’Ulm, as silent by day as tlie faubourg of a pro- 
vincial city, was at this hour as deserted as a country road. 


6 


EOSE-DE-NOEL. 


Consequently, Ludovic was able to listen to the conversation 
of the persons in the rez-de-chaussee, 

‘‘ What is the matter, my dear?’’ asked La Brocante. 

This conversation was evidently the continuation of some- 
thing that had been said before Ludovic’s arrival. 

But no one replied. 

‘‘I asked you what the matter was, my love?” repeated the 
sorceress, uneasily. 

The silence continued. 

“The ‘dear’ and the ‘love’ whom you address. Mother 
Brocante, is a beast not to reply,” said Ludovic to himself, 
“and I fancy it is that sulky Babolin.” 

La Brocante continued her interrogations, but still without 
obtaining any reply, and her voice gradually changed from 
entreaty to a menacing tone. 

“ If you do not reply. Monsieur Babylas,” said the Bohe- 
mian, finally, “I assure you you will come to grief.” 

Undoubtedly the person, or rather the animal, to whom 
these repeated questions had been addressed, came to the 
conclusion that his skin would be endangered by continued 
silence, for he replied with a growl which ended almost in a 
howl. 

“ What on earth is the matter, poor Babylas?” cried La 
Brocante. 

Babylas answered with another growl and howl, which La 
Brocante seemed to understand^ for she said, in a tone of the 
liveliest astonishment: 

“ Is it possible, Babylas?” 

The dog answered with a “Yes,” in his own language. 

“Babolin!” cried La Brocante; “ Babolin, you rascal!” 

“ What is it?” asked Babolin, aroused from his first sleep. 

“My cards, stupid.” 

“Oh, oh! cards at this hour? Well, well — I might have 
known it.” 

“My cards, I tell vou ” 

But Babolin replied with a growl which was not unlike 
that of the dog. 

“Don’t make me say that again, scampi” cried the old 
woman. 

“What do you want with your cards at this hour?” asked 
the boy, in a despairing sort of tone. “ Your cards, indeed! 
What do you think the police would say to you if they knew 
you had out your cards at two o’clock in the morning?” 

“Heavens!” said Kose-de-Koel, in her gentle voice; “ia 
it really two o'clock in the morning?” 


RQSE-DE-XOEL. 7 

■ child, it is only a little past midnight, answered La 
Brocante. 

“Midnight, indeed!” muttered Babolin; “go and see.” 

As if to end this discussion the clock struck the half hour. 

“ It is one o’clock,” cried Babolin. 

“ It is half past twelve,” La Brocante replied. 

“Well, what is the great difference, after all? Your con- 
founded cuckoo has broken one of its wings. Go to sleep, 
mamma, and let poor Babolin sleep, too.” 

La Brocante answered, hastily: 

“Just wait a moment and you will see what I will do.” 

Babolin, undoubtedly, had a very realizing sense of what 
La Brocante proposed, for he jumped from his bed. 

“Here are the cards, then,” said Babolin, taking them to 
the gypsy. 

Then he added, as a commentary: 

“I declare, it is too bad to see a woman as old as you 
spending her time in such folly, instead of sleeping quietly.” 

La Brocante shrugged her shoulders contemptuously. 

“As for you,” she said, “you hear nothing, and see noth- 
ing, and understand nothing.” 

“ I see one thing, anyway, which is that it is after one 
o’clock; I hear another, which is that all Paris is snoring 
except ourselves; and I understand fully that it is high time 
that we should follow this good example.” 

“I want none of your jokes,” cried La Brocante, snatching 
the cards from his hands. 

“But what am I to do?” exclaimed the boy, piteously, as 
he stifled a yawn; “you won’t let me sleep, and you won’t 
let me joke,” and he yawned again, in an energetic and more 
ostentatious manner. 

“ Didn’t you hear Babylas?” 

“Your darling? Yes," I think I had that pleasure.” i 

“ AYell — did you draw no inference from his howlsf” 

“ Of course I did.” 

“What was it, then?” 

“If I tell you, will you let me, sleep?” 

“Yes, lazybones!” 

“Well, then, I inferred that he was suffering from indi- 
gestion. He has. eaten enough for four dogs, and conse- 
quently has a right to howl like two.” 

“ Go to bed, you little scamp!” cried the gypsy, in a rage. 
“You are a fool, and will be as long as you live — mark my 
w'ords!” 

“Keep calm, mamma. You know that your predictions 


8 


EOSE-DE-NOEL. 


are not like Holy Writ; but as you have waked me, you 
may as well tell me why the dog howled.” 

‘‘Because a misfortune is coming.” 

“Pshaw!” 

“A' great misfortune: Babylas would not howl but for 
some good reason.” 

“ I agree with you, Brocante, that the dog who is living in 
clover here would not howl absolutely for nothing. We will 
ask him about it. Babylas, what have you been making that 
row for?” 

“ That is precisely what I intend to find out,” said Brocante, 
shuffling her cards. “Comeliere, Pharos.” 

Pharos did not reply to this appeal. 

La Brocante called him a second time, but the crow did not 
move. 

“Not at all surprising at this hour,” said Babolin; “the 
poor creature is asleep, and I am sure I am not the one to 
blame her for that.” 

“ Rose,” said La Brocante. 

“Mother,” answered the child, looking up from her read- 
ing. 

“Leave your book, child, and call Phares.” 

“Phares! Phares!” sung the young girl, in her sweet voice, 
which echoed in Ludovicos heart like the song of a lark. 

“The crow flew down from the top of the clock, described 
two or three circles under the ceiling, and then perched itself 
on the young girl’s shoulder, as we have already described in 
the chapter devoted to the gypsy’s interior, 

“But what is the matter, mother?” asked the girl; “you 
look much disturbed.” 

“ I have a sad presentiment, little Rose,” answered La 
Brocante. “See how uneasy Babylas is; see how frightened 
Pharos seems to be. If the cards are bad now, child, we may 
look for any misfortune.” 

“ You frighten me,” said Rose-de-Noel. 

“What IS the use, old sorceress,” murmured Ludovic 
without, “of troubling the heart of this poor child? You 
know that all this talk about cards, is pure charlatanism. I 
have a great mind to choke you — you and your dog and your 
crow!” 

The cards were bad. 

‘^We may look for some terrible trouble. Rose,” said the 
sorceress, wdth a dismal sigh, for, in spite of what Ludovic 
said, she was sincere in her faith in her cards and in her pro- 
fession as a magician. 


RPSE-DE-KOEL. " 0 

good mother/’ said Eose, Providence allows us 
to discover that misfortunes are about to overtake us, it ought 
also to give us means to avert them/’ 

Dear child!” murmured Ludovic. 

No,” said La Brocante, no; and that is the worst of it. 
I see the evil, but I know no way of escaping it. Alas! 
alas!” she continued, lifting her eyes to heaven. 

Ah! pray do not terrify us^/n that way!” said Rose; ‘h't 
maybe nothing. What misfortune could happen to us.^ We 
have never done any harm to any one; we have been so happy! 
Monsieur Salvator watches over us. I love ” 

She checked herself; she was about to say, innocent child, 
love Ludovic.” 

You love what?” asked La Brocante. 

‘‘ You love what?” said Babolin; then, in a lower voice, he 
added: La Brocante thinks that you are talking about 

sugar, molasses, and raisins. Oh, Brocante is so clever!” 

And Babolin began to sing: 

We love, we love, the fact is public. 

Monsieur Lu, lii, hi, 

Monsieur Do, do, do, 

Monsieur Lu, 

Monsieur Do, 

Monsieur Ludovic.” 

But Rose-de-Noel turned upon the young scamp, her sweet 
eyes filled with reproach, and he stopped short, saying: 

^^Well, then, you don’t love him. Are you content with 
that, little sister? Tell me, Brocante, would it be difficult 
to make verses like Jean Robert? I do it, you see, almost in 
spite of myself. I have decided — I shall become a poet.” 

But neither Rose-de-Noel nor Babolin could arouse La 
Brocante from her preoccupation. 

The gypsy would only say, in her dismal voice: 

‘^Go up stairs to bed, my child;” and then, turning to 
Babolin, whose yawns nearly dislocated his jaws, ‘‘and you, 
too, go to sleep. As for me, I must stay here and think of 
some way of conjuring this misfortune from us.” 

Ludovic drew a long breath of relief. • 

“This is the first sensible word I have heard for an hour,” 
he cried. 

Rose-de-Noel went up to her entresol; Babolin established 
himself once more in his bed, and La Brocante, in order 
probably to meditate more at her ease, closed the window. 


10 


ROSE-DE-KOEL. 


CHAPTER II. 

PAUL A^TD VIRGINIA. 

Then Ludovic ’crossed the street and leaned against the 
opposite house; there he could watch Rose-de-Noers windows, 
where the light came through little white curtains. 

From the moment when love so tardily entered his heart, 
Ludovic had passed his days in dreaming of Rose-de-Noel, 
and a portion of the nights in watching under her windows, 
while P6trus paced the street in front of Regina's door. 

This night was glorious: the atmosphere was of that trans- 
parent, limpid blue seen in the Naples sky along the Gulf of 
Bai'a. There was no moon, but the stars made up for this 
deficiency. The soft air and the luminous heavens reminded 
one of those tropical landscapes where, as Chateaubriand 
says, Night is not darkness, but the absence of day.’’ 

Ludovic, with his eyes fixed on Rose-de-Noel’s window, his 
heart ’overflowing with tenderness, enjoyed all the marvelous 
beauty of this summer night. 

He had not told Rose that he would come; there had been 
no rendezvous between himself and this dear child, but she 
knew that it was a rare thing that he was not there about 
midnight, when she opened her windows. Suddenly he saw 
the light extinguished, and then he heard the window open 
softly, and in the dim shadow beheld Rose place her rosebush 
outside upon the sill. 

This done, Rose-de-Noel looked down into the street, but 
her eyes, as yet filled with the light of the candle, were long 
in discovering Ludovic in the shadows of the doorway oppo- 
site. 

But Ludovic had seen her, and his voice caused her to 
start. 

“Rose!” he said. 

“Ludovic!” answered Rose. 

For whom else could have uttered her name, in such a ten- 
der voice that it sounded like a sigh rather than a spoken 
word. 

Ludovic darted across the street. 

In front of the house was one of those high walls, seen now 
only at the corners of the old houses of the Marais. Ludovic 
leaped on this wall; standing thus, he could seize and press 


ROSE-DE-JfOEL. 


11 


Rose-de-Noel’s two hands. He held them thus for some 
time, saying only the words: 

‘‘Rose! dear Rose!’’ 

As CO Rose, ^he did not even utter the name of the young 
man. She looked at him with a heart swelling with love and 
happiness. There was, in fact, no need of words; their eyes 
told more than their tongues could speak. 

Ludovic still held her hands, and contemplated her with 
the ecstasy of a blind man who first sees the light. 

Finally, breaking the silence: 

“Rose, dear Rose!’’ he said. 

“ Dear friend!” answered Rose. 

In what a tone these two words were uttered — with what 
an adorable intonation, and how it thrilled Ludovic! 

“Yes, your friend. Rose,” he said; “the tenderest, truest, 
and most devoted friend — a friend and brother, sweet sis- 
ter. ” 

As he. spoke he heard a footstep; this sound, although it 
was evidently and intentionally deadened, echoed through 
the deserted street as through a cathedral. 

“Some one comes!” he whispered. 

And he leaped from the wall and hastily concealed himself 
in the shadow. 

He saw two figures approaching. 

Rose, in the meantime, had closed the window, but it is 
quite certain that she remained standing behind the curtain. 

The two figures came nearer; they were two men who 
seemed to be looking for some house. 

When they reached that of La Brocante, they stopped, 
looked at the rez-de-chaussee, then at the entresol^ and 
finally at the wall on which Ludovic had been standing. 

“What may these two men want?” said Ludovic to him- 
self, gliding along in the shadow until he was much nearer. 

He moved so cautiously that the two men did not see 
him, and he could hear one say to the other: 

“This is certainly the place.” 

“Indeed!” thought Ludovic, opening his surgical case and 
taking out a scalpel, in order to have some arms at hand in 
case of needing them. 

But the two men had seen all they wished to see, had said 
all they wished to say, for, turning abruptly, they crossed the 
street diagonally and disappeared down the Rue des Postes. 

“ Can it be that Rose-de-Noel is in danger, as the witch 
prophesied?” said Ludovic to himself. 

Rose, as we have said, had closed the window, but, as we 


ROSE-DE'-NOEL. 

also said, slie stood behind the window and saw the two men 
disappear down the Rue des Postes. 

Ludovic returned to his position on the wall, and again 
grasped the girFs hands. 

What is the matter, friend?” she asked, ® 

Nothing, my beloved; it is probably only two belated 
theater-goers.” 

am afraid,” murmured Rose. 

And so arn I,” added Ludovic. ' , 

You too!” cried the girl; ‘‘you afraid! It is no wonder 
that I am afraid, for the witch frightened me.” 

Ludovic nodded, as much as to say, “I know it.” 

“I wanted to tell you,” continued Rose, “that I am read- 
ing the book that you gave me — yon know, ‘ Paul and Vir- 
ginia.’ Oh, how pretty it is! So pretty that I could not 
make up my mind to put it down and come up to my room.” 

“ Dear little Rose!” 

“ Yes, it is true, though I knew that you must be here.” 

“But did not La Bracante frighten you away?” 

“ Yes, she did; but now that 1 am with you I am no longer 
afraid.” 

“ Tell me more about ‘ Paul and Virginia.’ ” 

“It seemed to me that it was a dream, and that this dream 
reopened a time in my life that I had forgotten. Tell me, 
Ludovic — for you know everything — is it true that we have 
already lived when we come into this world?” 

“Ah, my child, you are touching with your little rosy 
fingers the tremendous secrets that men have eyed askance 
for six thousand years.” 

“Then you know nothing about it?” answered Rose* in a 
disappointed tone. 

“ Alas! no; but why do you ask the question?” 

“ Wait, and I will tell you. When I read the description 
of the country in which Paul and Virginia lived — of great 
forests, running streams, and azure skies — it seemed to me 
that I, in another life, of which I never dream except when 
I read ‘Paul and Virginia,’ had known a land like theirs; 
that I, too, had been familiar with huge-leafed trees, with 
fruits as large as my head, with immense forests, with sunny 
skies, and with a sea of the same hue as the sky. And yet I 
have never seen the’ sea! Sometimes, when I close my eyes, 
I feel myself swinging in a hammock like Paul’s, rocked by 
a woman as black as Domingo, who sings as she rocks. 


ROSE-T)E-KOEL. IB 

Great lieaveiis! it seems to me that I can even recall the 
words of the song! Wait a moment.’’ 

And Kose-de-Noel half closed Jier eyes in her effort to 
searcli the dim recesses of memory. 

But 'Ludovic pressed her hand, and said, with a tender 
smile: 

“ Do not fatigue yourself, little sister; it would be useless. 
’ It is but a dream, as you say. You cannot remember, child, 
what you never saw or heard.” 

“It may be a dream,” said Eose-de-Noel, sadly; “but any 
way, dear friend, I have seen a lovely land in my dreams.” 

And she stood buried in thought. 

Ludovic did not disturb her, for through the darkness he 
felt her tender smile, like the warm rays of the sun, falling 
on his head. 

But after awhile he spoke. 

“And La Brocante terrified you, poor child?” he whis- 
pered. 

“Yes,” murmured Rose, vaguely hearing these words. 

Ludovic read her thoughts as if they had been in an open 
book. 

She was dreaming of the tropics. 

“ La Brocante is a fool,” Ludovic continued; “a fool whom 
. I shall reprove myself.” 

“You?” exclaimed Rose, in astonishment. 

“Or rather I will tell Salvator to do so,” said the young 
man, somewhat embarrassed, “for Salvator says what he 
chooses in your house, does he not?” 

This question effectually aroused the young girl. 

“Oh, more than that, friend; his authority is with us 
entire and absolute. Everything in our house belongs to 
him.” 

“Everything?” 

“ Yes, everything and everybody.” 

“I trust you do not include yourself among the things or 
the people. Rose?” asked Ludovic. 

“Forgive me, my friend,” answered the child. 

“What!” said Ludovic, laughing, “do you mean that you 
belong to Salvator?” 

“Unquestionably. Do we not always belong to those we 
love?” 

“ Yo^i love Salvator?” 

“More than all the world.” 

“You!” cried Ludovic, with an astonishment that expressed 


/ 


14 


rOse-be-^^oel. 


itself in a long, deep sigh. The word love, on the lips of 
this girl, used to express her feelings for another than him- 
self, was a sore wound to Ludovic’s heart. ^^Then you love 
Salvator more than all the world?” he said, seeing that Rose 
was not disposed to say more. 

“ More than all the world,” the child repeated, 

‘^Rose!” said Ludovic, reproachfully. 

‘‘What is the matter, dear friend?” 

-‘How can you ask. Rose?” cried the young man, with a 
sob in his voice. “ Do you not understand?” 

“ No, indeed, I do not.” 

“ Have you not just said. Rose, that you loved Salvator bet- 
ter than any one in the world?” 

“Yes, I said it, and I repeat it.” 

“You mean, then, that you love me less than him?” 

<< You — less than him! What are you saying, Ludovic? 
I love Salvator as if he were my brother, my father — but 
you ” 

“ But I!” repeated the young man, thrilled with joy. 

“But you — 1 love — as ” 

“ Go on. Rose; tell me how you love me.” 

■ i< Ac 

“Go on.” 

“As Virginia loved Paul.” 

Ludovic uttered an exclamation of joy. 

“Tell me again, dear child — tell me once more the differ- 
ence between the love you have for me and all other loves.” 

“ Well, then, listen, Ludovic. If Monsieur Salvator were 
to die, I should be very sad, very unhappy — I should never 
be comforted; while if you were to die,” continued the young 
girl, passionately, “I should die too.” 

“Rose! Rose! dear Rose!” cried Ludovic, and reaching 
up he succeeded in pressing his lips on the girFs hands, and 
kissed them over and over again. 

From this moment the hearts of these two young creatures 
beat in unison; words were no longer necessary. 

Neither pen nor pencil can paint this rapture first known 
by Eve in her garden, and from thence by her daughters, down 
to Goethe’s Mignon, that other Eve, born at the extremity of 
cultivation, not in the gardens of Mount Ararat, but in those 
of Bohemia. 

AVhat was the hour? They could not have told; the min- 
utes passed sogently that neither of these poor children heard 
the sound of their wings. 

The clocks in the vicinity struck the hours, the half hours. 


ROSE-DE-KOEL. 


15 


and the quarters, with all their strength, hut the sound fell 
on deaf ears; they would not have heard had thunder rolled 
from the skies. 

And yet one sound, faint as it was, aroused Ludovic sud- 
denly. 

Eose-de-Noel coughed. 

Cold beads of perspiration broke out on the young man’s 
brow. 

‘‘Oh! that cough!” He recognized it as that which he 
had combated and conquered with so much difficulty. 

“Forgive me, Eose — dear Eose!”” he cried. 

“Forgive you what, my friend?” 

“ You are cold, my darling.” 

“Cold!” repeated the child, astonished and charmed by 
this attention. 

The poor child, except from Salvator, was unaccustomed 
to such solicitude. 

“Yes, Eose, you are cold; you coughed. It is late; you 
must leave the window.” 

“Leave the window!” she said. 

And she said it in the tone in which she might have said, “ I 
thought I was to stay here always.” 

Was it to the thought, or the words, that Ludovic re- 
plied? 

“No, my child,” he said, “it is impossible; you must go 
in. It is not the friend who speaks; it is the physician who 
commands.” 

“Adieu, then, cruel physician!” she replied, sadly. 

Then she continued, with her tenderest smile: 
remV, dear friend.” 

As she spoke she leaned so far out of the window that her 
curls touched the young man’s face. 

“Ah! Eose,” he murmured, and, standing on tiptoe, his 
lips were on a level with the girl’s fair brow. “I love you, 
Eose,” he said, as he kissed this pure brow. 

“I love you,” the girl replied, as she received the kiss. 

Then she disappeared so quickly that it was as if she had 
flown away. 

Ludovic; jumped to the ground, but he had not gone three 
steps when the window opened again. 

“Ludovic!” said Eose. 

Again the young man leaped upon the wall, almost without 
knowing that he did so. 

“ Eose, are you suffering?” he cried. - - - 


KOSB- DE-NOEL. 


No/’ answered the girl, shaking her head; ^"but I re- 
member.” 

^‘Eemember what?” 

That I loved before I was born.” 

Good heavens!” cried Ludovic, what do you mean? 

‘‘I mean,” answered the girl, ‘^that I remember how I 
lay, like Virginia, in a hammock, and that my nurse, £. 
negress, named— wait, I will tell you— it, was a queer name— 
she was named Danae— that is it! She sung as she swung 
me to and fro.” 

And Hose sung a little air, as if she were recalling not only 
the words but the notes. 

“Dodo! dodo! piti monde a maman! 

Maman chanter, maman cuit vous nanan.’* 

Ludovic looked at Eose-de-Noel in profound amazement. 

Wait, wait,” she continued. 

Vaisseau qui si vou te sage, 

Porto poisson, porte bagage." 

And Eose continued to sing, verse after verse, while Lu- 
dovic listened breathlessly. 

^‘That is all,” said the child, at last. 

in— go in!” cried Ludovic; ^‘we will talk of all this 
another time. Yes, dear child, you are right; we all live 
before we are born.” 

And Ludovic leaped on the ground again. 

J love you,” said Eose once more, and she closed the win- 
dow. 

“ I love you,"' answered Ludovic, loud enough for the 
charmed words to pass through the closed window. 

‘‘It is very stange,” he said to himself as he walked away. 
“ That was certainly a creole song that she sung. I wonder 
where the child came from? To-morrow I will ask Salvator; 
for, unless I greatly mistake, he knows much more about 
Eose-de-Noel than he says.” 

The clock struck three, and a faint white light appeared in 
the east. 

Ludovic went back, and looking up at the window, he mur- 
mured: 

“ Sleep well, dear child of my heart,” said Ludovic. “ To- 
morrow!” 

And, as if Eose-dc-Noel had heard these words, the window 
again opened gently, and the child said, softly: 
‘‘To-morrowr 


ROSE-DE-NOEL. 17 

CHAPTER III. 

THE BOULEVARD DES IHVALIDES. 

The scene that was taking place at the same hour on the 
Boulevard des Invalides, Hotel de Lamothe-Houdan, although 
somewhat similar to the two scenes we have related, was, in 
fact, very d ilferen t. 

With Rose, love was in bud. 

With Regina, the bud was half open. 

With Mme. de Marande, it waspn full bloom. 

Which is the most delicious moment in love? All my life 
I have endeavored to find the answer to this question. Is it 
the hour of its birth? is it the hour when it attains its full 
growth? or is it when it falls to the ground in its rich ma- 
turity? 

When is the suh most beautiful? Is it when it rises, or at 
midday? or is it at the hour when it dips its crimson into the 
sea amid floating clouds? 

Let some one else decide these momentous questions — we 
dare not attempt to do so. 

And this, too, is why we dare not say which was the hap- 
piest, Jean Robert, Ludovic, or Petrus; or which tasted the 
-delights of love most keenly, Mme. de Marande, Rose-de- 
Noel, or Regina. 

Petrus reached the gate of the hotel about midnight. 

After making several turns on the Boulevard desinvalides, 
to make sure that no one was watching him, he returned and 
took up a position in the angle of the wall where, the shadow 
was so deep that he could not be seen. 

He had been there some ten minutes, with his eyes fixed 
with some sadness on the closed blinds, through which he 
could see no light. 

He trembled lest Regina had been unable to escape lor the 
rendezvous; but at this moment he heard a gentle cough on 
the other side of the wall. 

Petrus replied by a similar cough. 

And, as if these two sounds had been endowed with the 
same magic power as the word sesame, the small gate, about 
ten feet from the large one, swung slowly open. 

Petrus glided along in the shadow until ho reached the 


18 


KOSE-T)E-XOEL. 


“Is that you, my good Nanon?” whispered Petrus, per- 
ceiving an old woman standing in the long dark lane of lin- 
den-trees that came down to the gate. 

“It is I,” answered Nanon, for she was, indeed, Regina’s 
good old nurse. ^ -r i- 

Oh, these nurses! from Phedre’s to Juliet’s, from Juliets 
to Regina’s! 

“And the Princess?” asked Petrus, 

“ She is here.” 

“ IV ai ting for us?” 

“Yes.” 

“But there is no light in her window, nor in the green- 
house.” 

“ She is at the roiid-point, in the garden.” 

No, she was not thei-e; she was at the end of the avenue, 
where she appeared like a white vision. 

Petrus flew toward her. 

Two words were confounded between four lips. 

“ Dear Regina!” 

“Dear Petrus!” 

“You heard me?” 

“I felt you.” 

“Regina!” 

“Petrus!” 

And there was the echo of another kiss. 

Then Regina drew her lover away. 

“To the ro7id-point” she said. 

“Wherever you will,” he replied. 

And the two lovers, swift as Atalanta and Hippomenes, si- 
lent as those sylphs and undines who pass over the tall grass 
of the Brumenthal without bending it, presently reached that 
part of the garden where the rond-point stood. 

This rond-point was one of the most charming spots for 
lovers to meet. It was an absolute labyrinth, in which 
one who did not know the secret could find the path. The 
trees, standing together very closely, were so interlaced at 
the top that it was like a huge green net, in which our lovers 
were caught like two butterflies. 

The foliage was not so dense, however, that the starlight 
could not enter, but it was with infinite precaution that they 
stole in and sparkled like emeralds on the smooth turf. 

Regina was all in white, like a bride. 

There had been an entertainment at the hotel, but Regina 
had thrown off her rustling silks and satins, and arrayed her- 
self in a loose peignoir of embroidered batiste, with large 


ROSE-DE-J^OEL, 


19 


sleeves, showing her magnificent arms; hut, lest she should 
keep Petrus waiting, she had not stayed to remove her 
pearls. 

Around her neck were rows of tiny pearls, which seemed 
J.ike so many drops of hardened milk; diamonds, each as large 
us a pea, sparkled in her ears; a riviere of diamonds shone in 
her hair, and bracelets of emeralds, rubies, and sapphires en- 
circled her arms. 

She was adorable thus — white as the moon, and, like her, 
surrounded by stars. 

When Petrus stopped to breathe and to see, he was com- 
pletely dazzled. No one could better have appreciated this 
fairy-like spectacle than this young man, who was a painter 
and a poet as well as a lover: the magnificent trees, the mossy 
ground bespangled with violets and glow-worms, a neighboring 
branch on which was a nightingale singing her voluptuous 
melody — and she, Eegina, encircled by his arm, the living 
center of this marvelous picture. 

It was enough to bewilder an indifferent person and to 
drive a lover mad; it was ‘‘A Midsummer NighPs Dream” 
■ — a dream of love and happiness. 

Petrus felt all its intoxication; but a terrible thingfor him, 
poor Petrus, was the fact that added to all this was the en- 
chantment of riches. 

It is true that, without pearls, rubies, emeralds, and sap- 
phires, Eegina would still have been beautiful. But this 
was not enough: not only was she named Eegina, but she had 
something of the queen about her. 

Alas! Petrus said this to himself very often, and remem- 
bered the avowal that it was his duty to make to his be- 
beloved. 

His lips parted to tell her all; but so many other words 
'.".ng upon them, that he said softly, Later! I will wait.” 

Eegina seated herself on a mossy bank; he threw himself 
at her feet, kissing her hands, and seeking among the jewels 
with which her arms were loaded a spot on which to place 
his lips. 

E6gina saw that her bracelets annoyed Petrus. 

“Excuse me, my friend,” she said; “I came to you as I 
was. I feared lest I should make you wait; then, too, I was 
in haste to see you. Aid me to take off these jewels.” 

She loosened her bracelets one after the other, and they 
fell about her like a sparkling rain of rubies, emeralds, and 
diamonds. 

Petrus stooped to gather them up. 


20 


llOSE-I)E-]SrOEL. 


“Oh, let them be,'’ she said, with an aristocratic indiffer- 
ence to wealth. “ Naiion will see to them. Here, Petrus, 
here are my hands and my arms; they arc all thine now; no 
more ‘chains, not even of gold; no more manacles, not even 
of diamonds!’’ 

What was to be said in reply? Nothing — he could kneel 
and adore. 

Petrus relapsed into a reverie, like that of an Indian in the 
mule contemplation of beauty; it was like the intoxication 
produced by hasheesh. 

Then, after a long silence, during which his eyes dwelt on 
those of the young girl, he cried, with passionate enthusi- 
asm: 

“Ah! my beloved Regina, God may now recall me to him- 
self, for I have touched with both hands and lips that un- 
known flower called human felicity, and I have lived. Never, 
even in my dreams, have I known a hundredth part of 
the joy that you bestow on me. I love you, Regina, beyond 
all expression — beyond life itself; and eternity seems not 
long enough for mo to repeat to you over and over again, I 
love you, Regina — I loVe you!” 

Regina placed her hand upon his lips. She, as we have 
said, was seated, and Petrus was lying at her feet; but as he 
kissed her hand, he half rose, and then throwing his arm 
around Regina’s neck, he stood upright, while she still re- 
mained seated. 

In this position, and looking down upon her, he again 
thought of his poverty, and he sighed- heavily. 

Regina started; she knew instantly that this was not a 
lover’s sigh — it was one of pain. 

“ What is the matter?” she asked, in terror. 

“Nothing,” and Petrus shook his head. 

“And yet you are sad? Speak, I beg of you.” " 

“I have had great annoyances, Regina.” 

“You?” 

“Yes.” 

“When?” 

“Lately.” 

“And have said nothing to me, Petrus? Ah, tell me 
now. Speak frankly.” 

And Regina threw back her head, that she might see her 
lover’s face better. 

Her beautiful eyes glittered like the diamonds in her hair. 

Had he seen only her eyes, Petrus would have spoken. 


EOSE-BE-KOEL. 21 

But there were diamonds, and the diamonds arrested the 
words on his lips. 

It. was certainly a cruel blow to tell this great lady, who 
was as rich as she was beautiful, that her lover was a poor 
painter, whose furniture and worldly possessions were to be 
sold within a few days at public auction. 

Then, too, this poor artist, in avowing his poverty to this 
rich woman, was also compelled to admit to this faultless 
creature that he had been a bad son. 

Again- did his courage fail him. 

‘‘IjS it not annoying,” he said, ‘^to be obliged to leave 
Paris, and not to see you for a week?” 

Kegina drew him toward her and held up her forehead. 

Petrus pressed his . lips upon it with a thrill of joy that 
irradiated his face. 

At this moment the moonlight touched the young man’s 
brow. 

Seeing him thus splendidly illuminated, R§gina uttered an 
involuntary cry of admiration. 

‘^You have sometimes told me that I was beautiful^ 
Petrus ” 

The young man interrupted her, 

I tell you so again, Regina, now and continually — if not 
always with my lips, always with my heart.” 

‘‘Then let me tell you once that you, too, are beautiful.” 

“I!” said Petrus, astonished. 

“ Let me tell you that you are beautiful, and that I love 
you, my noble Vandyke! I saw yesterday at the Louvre the 
portrait of the great painter whose talent God has bestowed 
upon you, and at once I thought of you, I remembered, 
moreover, hearing at Genoa of the loves of Vandyke and the 
Comtesse de Brignoles, and I was ready to say to you at that 
moment — is it not fortunate,. my Petrus, that I did not then 
happen to meet you? — I was ready to say to you then, ‘I 
am yours; I belong to you as she belonged to him, for you 
are as handsome as he was, and I love you, I am sure, more 
than ever she loved him.’” 

Petrus uttered an exclamation of joy, and throwing him- 
self on the bank by her side he drew her close to him. 

Regina leaned gently toward him, like a young palm-tree 
swayed by the evening breeze, and, with her head on his 
shoulder, she listened with a tender smile to the hurried 
beating of his heart, which said with every pulsation, “Regi- 
na, I love thee!” 


22 


ROSE-DE-NOEL. 


It was a charming group, and the Angel of Happiness should 
have turned them to stone in this moment of ecstasy. 

Speech was arrested on their lips-. What could they have 
said? The young man’s breath lifted K6gina’s hair; she 
shivered as she felt it, as the sensitive- plant shivers at the 
rush of a bird. 

An hour passed in this intoxicating lethargy, each enjoying 
the happiness of the other, but enjoying it in silence, as if 
fearing, by expressing it in words, to awaken the jealousy of 
the stars that looked down upon them. But neither the one 
nor the other escaped the influence of this tender embrace; 
their breath came quicker and quicker, and resembled sighs; 
their blood, like the coming in of the tide, seemed to have 
submerged their hearts and beat upon their brows. 

Regina awoke with a start, like a child from a bad dream, 
and, trembling in every limb, with her lips pressed to those 
of her lover, she murmured: 

Leave me, Petrus — leave me!” 

‘^Already!” said the young man, ‘^already! And why 
must I leave you?” 

tell you to go at once — ^go!” 

Does a danger menace us, my beloved?” 

‘‘Yes — a great and terrible one.” 

Petrus started to his feet and looked about him. 

Regina drew him to her side again, and, with a smile that 
was not altogether easy, she said: 

“N'o, my friend, the danger is not where you look for it.” 

“What do you mean.^” asked Petrus. 

“It is in ourselves; it is in our hearts, on our lips; it is 
in the embrace of your arms, in the clinging clasp of mine. 
Have pity on me, Petrus— I love you so much!” 

“Regina! Regina!” cried Petrus, taking the giiTs head 
between both his hands and kissing her passionately. 

The embrace lasted for some minutes. In this ardent kiss 
— which was, nevertheless, as pure as that of two angels — 
their souls were confounded. 

A star glided across the heavens and seemed to fall at their 
feet. 

Regina tore herself from her lover’s arms, 

“ We must not fall from heaven like that star, Petrus,” said 
Regina, with her lovely eyes full of tears. 

fttrus pressed on her brow a kiss which might have been 
that of a brother. 

“In the presence of God on high,” he said, solemnly, “in 


ROSE-DE-KOBL. 


23 


the presence of the stars which are his 03^68, I give you this 
kiss as a mark of the highest esteem and most profound re- 
spect.” , 

Thanks, my friend,” said Regina, kissing him 011 the 
forehead as she spoke. 

The clock struck three, and ISTanon appeared. 

“It will be daybreak in a half hour,” she said. 

“Yes, Nanon; we were about to say farewell.” 

They separated. 

But Regina extended her hand and took that of Petrus. 

“Friend,” she said, “ to-morrow you will receive a letter 
from me.” 

“ I sincerely hope so,” said the young man. 

“It will be a good letter.” 

“All your letters are good, Regina, but the last is always 
the best.” 

“This one will be better than the best.” 

“I am so happy that I am almost afraid.” 

“Have no fear, and be happy,” said Regina. 

“What will you tell me in this letter, my beloved?” 

“Oh, have patience to wait. Is it not best to keep some- 
thing for those days when we shall not meet?” 

“ Thanks, Regina; you are an angel.” 

Au revoir, my friend.” 

“ There!” said Nanon; “ what did I tell you? Behold the 
dawn!” 

Petrus shook his head and went his way, continually look- 
ing back as he went. 

Had Nanon said that the dawn had come? 

It may be so; but to the eyes of the two lovers the sky was 
covered with crape. The nightingale had ceased singing, 
the stars faded from the sky, and all this fairy-land had van- 
ished With their last kiss. 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE RUE DE JEI USALEM, 

Salvator, on leaving the three ycung men, had said, “I 
am going to try and save Monsieur Sarranti, who is to be ex- 
cuted in a week.” 

Salvator descended the Rue d’Enfer very rapidly, turned 
into the Rue de la Hurpe, crossed the Pont Michel, and went 


liOSE-DE-NOEL. 


u 

\ 

along the quay, and ut the moment when each of his fnends 
arrived at his rendezvous, he reached the Hotel de la 

]Pr6fecture. . 

As before, the porter stopped Salvator, saying:, 

‘‘ Where are you going?” 

Salvator gave his name, as he had previously done. 

“Excuse me, sir,” said the porter, / ‘I did not recognize 
you.” 

Salvator passed on. n- i ^ x 

He crossed the courtyard, ascended two flights of steps, 
and reached the anteroom where a servant was sitting. 

Monsieur Jackal?” said Salvator. 

“ He expects you,” answered the man, opening the door of 
M. Jackal’s private office. 

Salvator entered, and beheld the Chief of Police buried in 
the cushioned depths of a chair. 

On seeing the young man, M. J ackal rose, and said, 

eagerly: i 

“I was waiting for you, as you see, dear Monsieur Sal- 
vator.”* 

“ Thanks, sir,” answered Salvator, with his usual careless, 
disdainful air. 

“You told me, I think,” asked M. Jackal, “that it was 
only a little expedition into the environs of Paris?” 

“ Precisely,” answered Salvator. 

“ Order the carriage,” said M. Jackal to the servant. ^ 

The man disappeared. 

“ Take a seat, dear Monsieur Salvator,” said Jackal, point- 
ing to a chair. “ In five minutes we will start. I gave orders 
some time ago that the horses should be put to the car- 
riage.” 

Salvator seated himself, not on the chair to which M. 
Jackal had pointed, but upon another, further off. 

One might have thought that the young man shrunk from 
contact with the police. 

M. Jackal noticed this movement, but nothing save a 
slight lifting of the eyebrows showed that he noticed it. He 
took his snuff-box from his pocket and took a pinch. Then 
throwing himself back in his chair and raising his spectacles, 
he said : 

“Ho you know what I was thinking about when you came 
in, Monsieur Salvator?” 

“No, sir; I have not the gift of divination.” 

“ I was asking myself whence came your marvelous, love of 

humanity.” 


HOSE-BE-NOEL. 25 

^'From my conscience, sir,” answered Salvator. ‘‘I have 
always admired, more even tlian I admire VirgiFs verges^ the 
lines written by the poet of Carthage, who wrote them pos- 
sibly because he had been a slave: 

“ ‘ Homo sum, et nil humani a me alienum puto.’ " 

^^Yes, yes,” said M. Jackal, "'I know the lines. They 
were written by Terentiiis, were they not?” 

Salvator nodded approvingly. 

M. Jackal continued: 

‘^In fact, dear Monsieur Salvator,” he said, '^if the word 
philanthropic had not been already invented, it would have 
been created for you. The most reliable journalist^ — if a 
journalist can ever be reliable — might write to-morrow that 
you came to me at midnight to induce me to join you in a 
good action, but no one would believe him. You would be 
credited with some interested motive. Your political friends 
would disown you, and cry out that you had gone over to the 
Bonapartist party. The truth is that you have been so ener- 
getic in this Sarranti affair, you have been so amazingly per- 
sistent in your determination to prove to a court of justice 
that they have made a frightful mistake in condemning an 
innocent man, that your friends have the right to look upon 
you as a Bonapartist.” 

“To attempt to save the life of an innocent man is. Mon- 
sieur Jackal, merely a proof of a wish to do right. An inno- 
cent man is of no party, or rather he belongs to God’s 
party.” 

Yes, yes, of course — I understand. I have known for 
some time that you were what is called a free-thinker, I know, 
too, that it is useless to make an attempt to uproot opinions 
so profoundly seated. I should not think of attempting such 
a task. But if any oiie else should do so ” 

“It would be time thrown away, sir.” 

“I was once as young as you,” said M. Jackal, with a sigh. 
“I once held the same opinions as yourself. I have seen 
their errors and I’ have repented since, crying out, with 
Mephistopheles — you had your little quotation. Monsieur 
Halvator, permit me to enjoy mine — I cried out, as I say, with 
Mephistopheles, ‘ This great all is made only for a God. For 
Him, eternal light! He created us — us for darkness— — ’ ” 

“So be it,” said Salvator; “and I will reply, like Dr. 
Faust, ^ But I will!’” 

“ ‘ Time is short, art is long!’ ” continued M. Jackal, still 
quoting. 


20 


EOSE-DE-NOEL. 


Wliat would you have?’’ answered Salvator. Heaven 
has so made me. Some persons are naturally impelled to evil. 
I, on the contrary, by a natural instinct, by an irresistible 
power, am impelled to good. In this belief, Monsieur Jackal, 
I am not to be shaken.” 

“Oh, youth! youth!” M. Jackal murmured, with an air 
of discouragement, as he shook his head sadly. 

Salvator believed that the moment had come when the con- 
versation should be judiciously turned. 

“As you have done nie the honor to receive me,” he said, 
“ will you allow me to recall to you, in a few words, the end 
and aim of the expedition which I proposed to you yester- 
day?” 

“I am listening, dear Monsieur Salvator,” answered M. 
Jackal. 

Hardly had he uttered these words than the servant ap- 
peared and announced that the carriage was ready. 

M. Jackal rose. 

“ We will talk on the way, dear Monsieur Salvator,” he 
said, as he took his hat and nodded to the young man to fol- 
low him. 

When they reached the courtyard, M. Jackal bade the young 
man enter the carriage, and then, standing with his own foot 
on the step, he asked: 

“ Where are we to go?” 

“Route de Fontainebleau, to the Cour- de-France,” said 
Salvator. 

M. Jackal repeated the order. 

“ Drive through the Rue Macon,” added the young man. 

“Through the Rue Macon?” repeated M. Jackal. 

“Yes, and stop at my rooms. We have to take up an- 
other person there.” 

“The deuce we have! Had I known that I would have 
ordered the berlin instead of the coupe.” 

“Oh,” said Salvator, “ you need not be troubled; you will 
not be inconvenienced.” 

“Rue Mdcon, No. 4,” said M. Jackal. 

The carriage drove off, and very soon drew up at Salvator’s 
door, which he, jumping out, opened with a key. 

Hardly had his foot touched the staircase than a light ap- 
peared at the top. 

Fragola appeared with a candle, looking like a star seen 
from the bottom of a well. 

“ Is it you, Salvator?” she asked. 

** Yes, dear, it is 1.” 


ROSE-DE-KOEL. 


27 

Are you coming in?” 

‘‘No; I shall nonreturn until eight o’clock in the morn- 
ing.” 

Fragola sighed. 

Salvator divined the sigh rather than heard it. 

“Fear nothing,” he said; “there is no danger.” 

“You will take Eoland?” 

“ I came for him.” 

And Salvator called Roland. 

The dog, as if waiting for this summons, instantly rushed 
down the stairs and placed his paws on his master’s shoul- 
ders. 

“And I?” asked Fragola, sadly. 

“ Come!” said Salvator, extending his arms. 

We have already compared Fragola to a star, but never did 
a star shoot across the heavens with the rapidity that Fragola 
glided down the stairs and was clasped to Salvator’s breast. 

His tender smile reassured her. 

“To-morrow, then, at eight o’clock — or rather, to-day, at 
eight o’clock,” she said. 

“To-day, at eight o’clock.” 

“ Go, my Salvator; God is with thee.” 

And she followed the young man with her eyes until the 
door closed behind him. 

Salvator seated himself by M. Jackal’s side, and then, 
speaking through the window, bade the dog follow him. 

And, as if Roland knew where they were going, he not only 
followed but sometimes led the way toward the Barriere 
Fontainebleau. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE CHATEAU DE VIRY. 

For the benefit of such of our readers as are ignorant of 
the meaning of this expedition undertaken by Salvator, M. 
Jackal, and Roland, we will, in a few words, state what had 
taken place the previous evening. 

Salvator, seeing that the date fixed by the King for the re- - 
turn of the Abbe Dominique was approaching with giant 
strides, had decided to see M. Jackal. 

He said to him: 

“You authorized me, sir, to come to you whenever I saw 
an injustice to complain of or an evil to repair.” 


28 


ROSE-DE-KOEL. 


You are Tight, dear Monsieur Salvator,” Jackal replied; 
^‘1 remember saying Just that to you.” 

have come, then, to speak of Monsieur Sarranti’s con- 
denination.” 

Ah! YOU have come to me on that subject?” 

^^Yes.” 

Go on, then,” said M. Jackal, pulling down his 
spectacles. 

Salvator continued: 

If you, sir, had a positive conviction that Monsieur Sar- 
lanti was innocent, would you not do all in your power to 
save him?” 

^^Most assuredly, dear Monsieur Salvator.” 

‘‘ You will understand me, then, when I tell you that 1 
have this conviction.” 

“Unfortunately,” said M. Jackal, “I do not share it.” 

“I have come here to-day to impart it to you. I have not 
only the conviction of Sarranti’s innocence, but also the 
proof.” 

“You! dear Monsieur Salvator? I am very glad.” 

Salvator nodded. 

“You have this proof, you say?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Then show it to me.” 

“ I have come to ask your assistance in bringing this proof 
to the full light of day.” 

“I am quite ready, dear Monsieur Salvator. Speak, if 
you please.” 

“No, I did not come to speak; words are not proofs. I 
have come to act,” 

“ Let us both act.” 

“Can you give me this night?” 

Jackal gave Salvator a keen, quick glance. 

“ No, I cannot,” he replied. 

“The night after, then?” 

“ Certainly — but I first wish to know for how long a time 
you will want me.” 

“Only for a few hours.” 

“Is the expedition in Paris, or out of the city?” 

“ Out of the city.” 

“How many leagues?” 

“Four or five.” 

“Very good.” 

“Then you will be ready?” 

“At what hour?” 


K0S1*:-I>E-N0EL. 


29 

At midnight.” 

^‘Day after to-morrow, then, at midnight.” 

Precisely. I will be here.” 

And Salvator hurried away. 

It was then eight o’clock in the morning 

In the courtyard he met a man wearing a long coat with a 
high collar, and a cap that seemed made to conceal his face. 

Salvator did not notice him. 

People who called on M. Jackal had often excellent reasons 
for not showing their faces. 

This man went up stairs to M. Jackal’s private room, and 
was announced as M. Gerard,. 

M. Jackal uttered an exclamation of delighted surprise, 
and the door was hastily closed. 

The conference lasted over an hour. 

Perhaps we may learn hereafter what took place during 
this conference, but at the present moment we are compelled 
to follow Salvator, M. Jackal, and Boland. 

The carriage drove very rapidly. 

When they reached the Pont Godeau, Salvator bade the 
coachman stop, and he, with M. Jackal, descended. 

‘‘I think,” said the Chief of Police, that we have lost 
your dog. It would be a great pity, as he seems to be an in- 
telligent animal.” 

^‘He is, indeed, wonderfully intelligent,” answered Salva- 
tor, ‘‘but you will see.” 

The two men took the road through the apple-trees that 
our readers already know, and which went to the park gates. 

In front of the gates they found Boland waiting for them, 
stretched out in the moonlight, with head uplifted, in the 
attitude of a huge Egyptian sphinx. 

“ It is here!” said Salvator. 

“A fine property!” said M. Jackal,. lifting his spectacles, 
and looking through the bars of the gate. “ But how is one 
to get in?” 

“Oh! very easily, as you will see,” answered Salvator. 
“Halloo, Bresil!” 

The dbg started to his feet. 

“I thought your dog’s name was Boland?” said M. Jackal. 

“In the city only; in the country I call him Bresil. It is 
a long story, however, which I will tell you another time. 
Here, Bresil!” 

Salvator went to that ^portion of the wail which he had been 
in the habit of climbing. 


so 


ROSE-DE’ifOEL. 


Bresil obeyed his masber^s summons, and stood close to 
Salvator’s side. 

Salvator lifted him, as we saw him do on a former expedi- 
tion, until his fore paws rested on the top of the wall, and 
then his master placed his hind feet on his own shoulders. 

‘‘Jump!” he said. 

The dog leaped over the wall. 

“ All!” said M. Jackal, “ I begin to understand; it is a good 
way of showing us the path.” 

“And now it is our turn,” answered Salvator, swinging 
himself upon the wall; then seating himself, with a leg on 
either side, he held out his hands to M. Jackal. 

“ Let me assist you,” he said. 

“It is unnecessary,” answered Jackal, swinging himself up 
as Salvator had done, and with an agility which the young 
man was far from expecting — it is true, however, that as he 
was very thin no great weight came on his arms. 

“You are all right, I see,” said Salvator, as the Chief of 
Police landed on the other side of the wall with a dexterity 
that revealed an accomplished gymnast. 

“Now,” said Salvator, commanding Bresil, with a gesture, 
to stand still, “ have you any idea where you are?” 

“None whatever, but I trust you will have the kindness to 
tell me?” 

“ We are at the Chateau de Viry.” 

“ Viry? And what is Viry?” 

“ Permit me to assist your memory. Viry, you know, is 
the chateau of that most excellent man. Monsieur Gerard.” 

“The chateau of the most excellent Monsieur Gerard? I 
have heard that name before, 1 think.” 

“I agree with you. Gerard lived here some years, and 
then let it to Monsieur Loredan de Valgeneuse, who wished 
to hide Mina.” 

“Mina? — what Mina?” 

“ The young girl who was abducted from Versailles.” 

“Ah! To be sure! And what has become of her?” 

“Will you allow me to tell you a little story. Monsieur 
Jackal?” 

Tell it, by all means, dear Monsieur Salvator. You know 
how much pleasure it will give me to hear it.” 

“Well, then, one of my friends in Russia — it was in St. 
Petersburg — had the imprudence, when playing with a great, 
lord, to lay on the table a superb snuff-box, richly set with 


ROSE-DE-NOEL. 31 

diamonds; the snuff-box disappeared. He was very fond of 
this snuff-box.” 

‘‘Naturally,” said M. Jackal. 

“ Less on account of the diamonds than because of the lady 
who gave it to him. He confided his misfortune to his host, 
and, with much circumlocution, informed him that there was 
certainly a thief in the house. To his great amazement, the 
host did not seem to be astonished.” 

“ Give me the exact description of your snuff-box,” he said. 

My friend did so. 

“ I will try and get it back for you.” 

“ You intend to appeal to the police?” 

“ By no means. If I did you would never see it again. 
You must, in the meantime, keep entirelv quiet on the sub- 
ject.’' 

“But what do you intend to do?” 

“Ah! that is my affair. I will tell you when 1 hand you 
your snuff-box.” 

At the end of a week the great lord called on my friend. 

“Is this it?” he asked, producing a -snuff-box. 

“ It is, indeed,” was my friend’s reply. 

“Take it, then; but remember, in future, never lay it on 
a gaming-table — it was stolen from you, and it is worth ten 
thousand francs;” 

“How the deuce did you get it back?” 

“It was taken by one of my friends.” 

“And you ventured to ask him for it?” 

“Ask him for it? By no means. That would have been 
an insult.” 

“ But what did you do?” 

“ Precisely what he had already done. I stole it from him!” 

“Ah! Ah!” said M. Jackal. 

“ Do you comprehend this little apologue, dear Monsieur 
Jackal?” 

“ Yes; Monsieur de Valgeneuse robbed Justin of Mina.” 

“Precisely; and I took Mina from De Valgeneuse.” 

Ikl. Jackal took a pinch of snuff. 

“ I knew nothing of all this,” he muttered. 

“I am quite sure you did not.” 

“How did it happen that De Valgeneuse did not come to 
me to complain?” asked M. Jackal, 

“Because we arranged the matter between ourselves.” . 

“Then, if the matter is arranged ” began the Chief of 

Police. 


EOSE-T)E-NOEL* 


82 

There need be nothing more said about it? Of course 
not; we will talk of Monsieur Gerard instead.” 

I am listening.” 

^•Monsieur Gerard^ as I told you, left tlie chdteau some 
time ago.” 

‘^Some time after the disappearance of Sarranti, and the 
two children. With these facts I am well acquainted,” con- 
tinued M. Jackal, for they were proved in court.” 

‘‘But are you aware of the facts connected with the disap- 
pearance of the nephew and niece of Monsieur Gerard?” 

“No; for Monsieur Sarranti, as you are well aware, has 
persistently denied all knowledge of this deed.” 

“And he was right, for when Sarranti left the Chfiteau de 
Viry, the two children were living, and playing on the lawn.” 

“ I know that he said so.” 

“Well, Monsieur Jackal,” said Salvator, “I can tell you 
what became of thesp two children.” 

“Kousensel” 

“I am in earnest— I can tell you.” 

“ Do so, then. Monsieur Salvator, for I am deeply inter- 
ested.” 

“ The girl was killed by Madame G6rard, stabbed with a 
knife, and the little boy was drowned by Gerard himself.” 

“For what end?” 

“ You forget that Gerard was both guardian and heir to 
these children.” 

“But what are you saying, dear Monsieur Salvator? I 
never knew Madame Gerard, but — — ” 

“There was no Madame Gerard; she was simply Orsola.” 

“ That may be. I knew Monsieur Gerard, however — a most 
excellent man. People call him honest Monsieur Gerard,” 
and Jackal’s lips curled with the smile peculiar to himself. 

“And yet,” said Salvator, “the honest Monsieur Gerard 
drowned the boy, while his so-called wife cut the little girl’s 
throat.” 

“And you can prove this?” 

“ Most certainly.” 

“When?” 

At once, if you will consent to follow me.” 

“ As I have come thus far ” said M. JackaL 

“ You may as well go to the end ?” 

M. Jackal shrugged his shoulders in assent, ' 

“ Come, then,” said Salvator; and leading the way, the two 
men walked toward the house, keeping close to the wall. 
Bresil seemed in a great state of excitement, and it was with 


M)E-KOEL. 33 

difficulty that hi ieted him. Some invisible power 

seemed to attrac 3 portion of the park. 


, ‘TER VI. 

i ♦ 

TET WHICH M. , i-x’LORES SALVATORES HONESTY. 

They reached the chateau, which was perfectly dark — not 
a gleam of light in any window, it was evidently deserted. 

Let us stand still a moment, dear Monsieur Jackal,” said 
Salvator. will tell you just where the crimes were com- 
mitted.” 

According to your conjectures.” 

According to the facts. In front of us is the pond in 
which the boy was drowned, and behind us the cellar where 
the little giiTs throat was cut. Let us begin with the cellar. ’’ 

‘‘I have no objections; but to do that you must enter the 
chateau.” ‘ ^ 

‘‘ A very simple matter, for the last time I was here — 
knowing that I should wish to come back again some day-r-I 
took the key of the door away with me. We will go in now.’’ 

Bresil wished to follow the two men. 

‘‘Good Brasil!” said Salvator, “you must stay here until 
your master calls you.” 

Bresil seated himself outside, and waited. Salvator led 
the way, and Jackal followed. Salvator closed the door. 

“ You can see in the darkness like a cat^ or a lynx, I be- 
lieve?” asked Salvator. 

“Thanks to my spectacles,” said M. Jackal, “lean see 
enough to guard against accidents.” 

“ Then follow me.” 

Salvator turned into a corridor on the left, his companion 
following him closely. 

The corridor ended in a dozen steps, which descended into 
' the kitchen; from the kitchen stairs went into the cellar, 
where took place the terrible scene we have before described. 
Salvator crossed the kitchen with a rapid step. On reaching 
the cellar he stopped. 

“It was here,” he said. 

“ What do you mean?” 

“I mean that it was here that Madame Gerard was 

strangled.’’ 

“ What do you mean?” asked Jackal. . - 


34 


ROSE-T)E-^^OEL. 


•'I mean wliat I say, Bresi], do I not?’- and Salvator raised 
his voice. 

There was a heavy fall; the dog had jumped through a win- 
dow, and was at the feet of his master. 

“ What on earth is that?” asked the Chief of Police, start- 
ing back. 

It is Bresil; he wishes to show you how the thing took 
place. ” 

“ Oh! oh! was it Bresil, then, who strangled poor Madame 
Gerard?” 

It was he, indeed.” 

'‘Then Bresil is a murderer, who deserves to be shot.’^ 

"Br§sil is an honest dog, who deserves the Montyon prize.” 

" Explain yourself, if you please.” 

" Bresil strangled Madame Gerard, because she was about 
to murder little Leonie — he adored the child, and hearing 
her screams, he came to her assistance. Did you not, Bresil?” 

Bresil answered with a dismal howl. 

“ Kow,” continued Salvator, "if you doubt what I say, 
light a candle and examine these flags.” 

As if it were the most natural thing in the world to have 
upon his person matches and a candle, M. Jackal drew both 
from the pocket of his overcoat. 

In a moment the candle burned so brightly that M. Jackal 
winked his eyes. He was like those birds of prey who prefer 
darkness to light. 

"Stoop a little,” said Salvator. 

M. Jackal stooped. 

A faint reddish tinge was upon the stones. 

Salvator pointed to it. 

It might have been denied th^J this spot was made by blood, 
but M. Jackal seemed to recognize the fact, for he did not 
dispute it, 

" What does this prove?” he asked. "The blood may be 
that of Madame Gerard, it is quite as likely.” 

"It is Madame Gerard’s blood,” 

" How do you know?” 

"I will show you.” 

And Salvator called Brasil. 

"Bresil!” he said, "see! see!” 

And he showed the blood to the dog. 

The animal sniffed at the stone, then growled frightfully, ' 
his lips receding from his teeth; he tried to bite the stone.*'" 

"You see that?” said Salvator. 

" I see that your dog is in a rage, that is all.” 


ROSE-DE-NOEL. 


35 


Wait. Now I will show you little Leonie’s blood/’ 

M. Jackal looked at Salvator as if he thought him crazy. 

Salvator took the candle from the hand of his companion, 
and going into the wood-cellar, he pointed out, near the door 
that led to the garden, more of the same ominous spots. 

This,” he said, ‘Ms little Leonie’s blood. Isn’t it, Bre- 
sil?” 

This time the dog put out his tongue as if he wished to 
caress the stone, and then uttered a most dismal howl. 

“You see him?” said Salvator. “The little girl was not 
killed while Bresil held Orsola by the throat: the little girl 
escaped into the garden.” 

“Ah, ah! and afterward?” 

“No more at present about the little girl,” Salvator re- 
plied. “We will now occupy ourselves with the boy.” 

And extinguishing the candle, he handed it back to M. 
Jackal. 

They then went into the garden. 

“And now,” said Salvator, “we arrive at the second part 
of the drama. This is the pond where Monsieur Gerard 
drowned the boy while Madame Gerard was busy with the 
girl.” 

They stood on th,e edge of the pond. 

“Brasil,” said Salvator, “show us how you drew the body 
of your young master from the water.” 

firesil, as if he perfectly understood what was expected of 
him, did not need to have the order repeated. He threw 
himself into the water, swam more than half way across the 
pond, disappeared from sight, and then struggling to the 
surface, swam to the shore and sank upon the turf as if ex- 
hausted. 

“Upon my word,” said M. Jackal, “that dog would cer- 
tainly have beaten Munito at chess.” 

“Wait — wait,” answered Salvator. 

“I am waiting,” murmured Jackal. 

Salvator led his companion to the foot of a tall tree, and 
requested him to light his candle once more. 

M.- Jackal obeyed. 

“Look at this,” said Salvator, showing the Chief of Police 
a deep scar in the trunk of the tree; “look at this, and tell 
me what you think it is.” ^ 

“I should say it had been made by a bullet.” * 

“And I am sure of it,” Salvator said. 

Then taking out a slender, sharp knife, which seemed to 
be knife, dagger, and lancet in one, he dug into the scar ou 


KOSE-DE-i^OEL. 


36 

the tree, and lifting the hark, he took out a tiny bit of 
lead. 

‘‘You see! the ball is still there. 

“I don't deny it," answered M. Jackal; “but what does a 
bullet in the trunk of a tree prove? We ought -to know 
where the ball went before it lodged here.’’ 

Salvator called Bresil. 

Bresil ran np to him. 

Salvator took M. Jackal’s finger, and pressed it first on the 
left side and then on the right side of the dog. 

“Do you feel that?’’ he asked. 

“ I feel something." 

“ What do you feel?" 

“Two scars, I should say." 

“ You wanted to know where the ball went. Do you know 
now?" 

M. Jackal looked at Salvator with increasing admiration. 

“Come," said the young man. 

“Where now?" 

“Wliere Horace said we must make haste to arrive — at the 
denoUment : Ad eventum festina,^^ 

“Ah, dear Monsieur Salvator," cried M. Jackal, “what ^ 
pity it is that you are an honest man!" 

And he followed Salvator. 


CHAPTER VII. 

MOXSIEUK SALVATOK EXPERIENCES A DISAPPOINTMENT. 

“Now," said Salvator, as they walked along the edge of 
the pond, “you see it all, do you not?" 

“ Not entirely." 

“Well, then, while the little girl was in the cellar the 
little boy was drowning in the pond. Bresil ran when he 
heard the child scream, choked Orsola — or Madame Gerard, 
whichever you choose to call her — then, having finished the 
woman, he went in search of his other little friend, the boy; 
and rescuing him from the depths of the pond, received 
through his body a ball which lodged in the trunk of the 
tree, where we found it. The dog, cruelly wounded, ran 
away. Then the murderer took the child’s body and buried 
it." 

“Buried it! And where?" 

“ I will show you." 

M. Jackal shook bis head. 


ROSE-DE-XOEL. 


87 


Where I have seen it myself.” 

Jackal shook his head again, 

‘‘But you will see it, too.” 

“If I see it ” said M. Jackal. 

“What then?” 

“I shall say it is there.” 

“ Come on,” said the young man, quickening hi&step. 

We know the road he took; we have seen Gerard travel it 
once, and Salvator another time: the first was crime, the sec- 
ond was justice. 

Brdsil walked a little in front, coming back every few rods 
to see that he was followed. 

‘‘ Here we are,” said Salvator, entering some thick brush. 

M. Jackal was close behind. 

But Brasil stopped short. 

Instead of beginning to scratch the ground with his paws, 
he lifted his head, and seemed to be smiling at something, 
and then began to growl. 

Salvator, who read every thought of the animal as readily 
as Bresil seemed to read his, understood at once that some- 
thing strange had taken place. 

He looked about. At that moment the moon fell full on 
M. Jackal’s face;' his lips wore the strangest of smiles. 

“You say it was here?” asked M. Jackal. 

“ It is here,” Salvator answered. 

Then, addressing the dog: 

“Seek, Bresil! seek!” he said. 

Bresil put his nose to the earth, then, lifting his head, 
howled mournfully. 

“No, no,” said Salvator; “we are mistaken, good dog. 
Seek!' seek!” 

But Bresil shook his head; it was an almost human gesture, 

, and seemed to say that it was useless to seek. 

“ Pshaw!” said Salvator to the dog; “can it be ” 

And throwing himself on the ground he did what the dog 
refused to do — that is to say, he began to turn up the soil 
vigorously. 

This was easy to do, as it seemed to have been lately dis- 
turbed. 

“Well?” asked M. Jackal. 

Salvator answered hoarsely, for his last hope had vanished! 
“ The body has been taken away!” 

“It is shameful!” cried M. Jackal. “Deuce take it all! 
It might have been a proof, you know. Try again.” 

In spite of the repugnance he naturally felt, Salvator 


38 


ROSE-BE-N-OEL. 


plunged his arm once more into the yielding soil, and then 
rising to his feet, with a pale face and fiery eyes, he cried ve- 
hemently: 

‘‘The body has been removed!” 

“ But by whom?” asked his companion, coldly. 

“By the person who had an interest in its disappearance.” 

“Are you quite sure that there was ever a body there?” 

“I tell you that, led by Koland — or Bresil, whichever you 
choose to call him — I found the skeleton of little Victor in 
this place, where he had been buried by his uncle, after the 
dog had taken him from the water. It was there, Eoland, 
was it not?” 

Eoland rose, and, placing his paws on Salvator’s shoulders, 
he uttered a long, melancholy howl. 

“But when was it there?” asked the Chief of Police. 

“Day before yesterday; it was taken away night before 
last, then.” 

“Naturally,” said M. Jackal, in whose face and voice not 
the most astute observer could have discovered any change, 

if you persist in pretending that it was here thirty-six hours 
ago.” 

“I do not pretend,” said Salvator, “I affirm.” 

“The devil is in it!” murmured the Chief of Police. 

Salvator studied his face for a moment. 

“Admit,” he said, suddenly, “that you knew in advance 
that we should find nothing here.” 

“ Monsieur Salvator, I believe every word you say; and as 
you told me we should find something here ” 

“Admit that you know who carried off the body.” 

“Upon my word, dear Monsieur Salvator, I have no idea.” 

“Zounds! dear Monsieur Jackal,” cried the young man, 
“you are not very clear-sighted to-night.” * 

“I admit,” answered Jackal, good-naturedlv, “that this 
scene—this deserted park and this dismal place— -are not cal- 
culated to quicken one’s wits, and I must confess that I can’t 
divine who could have stolen your skeleton.” 

“It was not Monsieur Sarranti, at all events, as he is in 
prison.” 

“ No, but it may have been his accomplices; for who can 
say that the body was not placed here by Monsieur Sarranti? 
Who can say that it was not he who drowned the boy and 
fired upon the dog?” 

“I can say so!” cried Salvator; “and the proof But 

no, thank Heaven! I hope to find some better proof than 


EOSE-DE-I?-OEL. 89 

that. You admit, do you not, that the one who has carried 
away the body is also the murderer?” 

Your conclusions are hasty.” 

^'Or his accomplice?” 

It looks like it, certainly.” 

‘‘Roland, here!” cried Salvator, 

The dog obeyed, 

“ Roland, some one has been here.” 

The dog growled. 

“Find him, Roland! find him!” 

Roland wandered about a few moments, 'and then, seeming 
to have got the scent, dashed toward the gate. 

“Not so fast, Roland! not so fast, good dog! Monsieur 
Jackal, we will follow Roland.” 

M. Jackal obeyed, saying, as he did so: 

“ A wonderful animal! If you should ever wish to dispose 
of him. Monsieur Salvator, I know some one who will pay an 
excellent price for him.” . 

The dog growled fiercely as he ran on with his nose to the 
ground. After a little he made a sharp turn to the left. 

“We will turn to the left,” said Salvator. 

Jackal obeyed, like an automaton. 

Soon the dog turned to the right, 

“We will turn to the right, Monsieur Jackal,” said Sal- 
vator. 

And M. Jackal again obeyed. 

The dog stood still, under a group of trees. 

Salvator went up and examined them. 

“Ah!” he said, “the man who took away those bones 
thought of putting them here; he even began to turn over 
the earth, but he decided that the place was not safe, and so 
on. Am I not right, Roland?” 

Roland replied with a howl, and started off again toward 
the gate. 

At the gate he again stood still. 

“It is useless for us to continue our search within the 
park,” said Salvator; “the body was taken out here.” 

“The deuce it was!” said M. Jackal; “the gate is shut, 
and the lock seems sound and solid.” 

“We can get out, nevertheless; for, if the gate won’t open, 
we can climb the wall, as we did to get in. Roland will find 
the scent again outside.” 

And Salvator was about to climb, but M. Jackal stopped 
him, saying: 

“ I know something better than that.” 


40 


ROSE-DE-XOJIL 


And taking a buncli of false keys from Iiis pocket, he tried 
two or three, and at the third the door opened as if by 
magic. 

Bresil dashed through, and instantly, as Salvator had fore- 
seen, found the scent again. He kept along close to the 
wall, and then across a field to the highway. 

In the newly tilled field they saw footsteps. 

‘‘Do you see that?” asked Salvator. 

“Yes, I see,” answered M. Jackal; “but, unfortunately, 
there is no signature attached to them.” 

“We shall find the signature at the end of the trail,” said 
Salvator, confidently. 

But the trail ended in the highway, a royal road, and paved; 

Boland went up to the stones, and howled piteously. 

“ A carriage was waiting here, and the man entered it with 
the body.” 

“To go where?” asked M. Jackal. 

“It is that which I propose to find out.” 

M. Jackal shook his head at this reply. 

“Ah! dear Monsieur Salvator,” he said, “I greatly fear 
that you have taken all this trouble for nothing.” 

“And I, Monsieur Jackal,” answered Salvator, hot with 
rage, “am sure that I have achieved something.” 

Jackal made that little noise with his lips which signifies 
doubt. 

“The scent lost,” he said, “Madame Gerard killed, the 
two children dead.” 

“Yes,” answered Salvator, “ but the two children are not 
dead.” 

“ How! the two children not dead!” cried M. Jackal, feign- 
ing the most lively astonishment. “You told me that the 
boy was drowned?” 

“Yes; but I showed you the marks of blood shed by the 
little girl as she escaped.” 

' “Well?” 

“Well — Bresil flew at the throat of the dear Madame 
Gerard, and the child ran away, and — she is safe.” 

“Safe! Then she is still living?” 

“ She is still living.” 

“That is magnificent! particularly if her memory is good, 
and she can describe what took place. Does she remember?” 

“She remembers.” 

• “It will be a terrible thing for this child to give her evi- 
dence in public,” said Jackal, shaking his head. 

“Yes/’.said Salvator; “but you will interrogate her gently. 


ROSE-DE KOEL. 41 

She must reply, of course, as a man’s life hangs on her evi- 
dence. You will question her, of course?” 

“Certainly; it is my duty to do so.” 

“Very good. This is all 1 can do at present; but here is 
the dawn, and I will not detain you any longer, my dear Mon- 
sieur Jackal; we will return to Paris,” and Salvator led the 
way down the road. 

“Where are you going?” asked his companion. 

“To the carriage which we left on the Pont Godean.” 

“No,” said M. Jackal, “the carriage can come here.” 

And he drew from his immense pocket a whistle, which he 
applied to his lips; the sound it made was so shrill that it 
could have been heard a half league away. 

He whistled three times. 

Five minutes later the sound of an approaching carriage 
was heard. 

This carriage was M. JackaPs, and the two men took their 
seats in it. 

Poland, who seemed indefatigable, ran along by the side. 

At eight o’clock in the morning the carriage entered Paris. 

“ Where shall I set you down?” asked M. Jackal. “ Let me 
leave you at your rooms, it is entirely on my way.” 

Salvator saw no reason for refusing this courtesy. 

He acquiesced with a simple bow. 

The carriage stopped in the Kue Macon, at No. 4. 

“Another time I hope we shall be more fortunate,” said 
M. Jackal. 

“I hope so,” answered Salvator. 

“Au re voir!” 

“Au re voir!” 

Salvator jumped from the carriage; the door closed; and 
the coupe was rapidly driven off. 

“ Demon that you "are!” said Salvator, “ I believe you know 
better than I where the body of that poor child now is.” 

As he said this he turned the key in his door. 

“No matter,” he thought, “ we still have Rose-de-Noel.” 

And he ran up the stairs, preceded by Roland, 
i “Is it you, friend?” said a sweet voice from above. 

“Yes, it is I,” Salvator replied, as he took Fragola in his 
arms. 

For a moment he totally forgot the terrible disappointment 
of the night. 

Fragola was the first to remind him. 

Come in, Salvator,” she said, An old woman has been 


42 


KOSE-DE-NOEL. 


here since seven o’clock. She has been waiting to see you, 
and to tell you something which will grieve you deeply.” 

‘‘An old woman!” cried Salvator. “Is it La Brocante?” 

And rushing into the room — 

“ Rose-de-Noel?” he shouted. “Rose-de-Noel?” 

‘^Alas!” answered La Brocante, “when I entered her room 
this morning the window was open and the child was gone.” 

“Ah!” cried Salvator, striking his head with his clinched 
hands, “I ought to have known, when the body of the brother 
was missing that the sister would disappear at the same time!” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

MONSIEUR GERARD MAKES A REPORT. 

We must now explain how it happened that Salvator and 
M. Jackal failed to find the child’s body in the Parc de Viry. 

It will be remembered that when Salvator left M. Jackal’s 
private office, he met a man wrapped in a huge cloak, al- 
though the weather did not require such precautions. The 
cloak, high collar, and slouched hat seemed intended as a 
disguise. 

This man, at whom Salvator had scarcely glanced, was 
announced as M. Gerard. 

An acute observer would instantly have recognized in this 
man a spy in every sense of the word. He would have known 
him by iiis stealthy step, by the care with which his face and 
figure were concealed, and by the haste with which he took 
refuge in M. Jackal’s presence. 

When he entered the door of the office, M. Jackal called out: 

“Ah! ah! the honest Monsieur Gerard! Come in, my 
dear sir, come in!” 

“I am disturbing you, I fear.” 

“ Disturbing me! By no means! Never!” 

“ You are too kind,” said M. Gerard, much flattered. 

“In fact, I was about sending for you. You are my 
favorite, my hero, you know, and yet you talk of disturbing 
me. You were not in earnest, I am sure.” 

“I was afraid you were going out.” 

“Oh! I had merely risen to say good by to one of your 
friends.” 

“ One of my friends? Which one?” 

“Monsieur Salvator.” 

do not know him,” said Gerard, much amazed, 


BOSE-DE-KOEL. 


43 


that so? At all events, he knows you.” 

But are you not going out?” 

Put down your hat — you look as if you were impatient to 
be oif — and take this chair. Tell me, Monsieur Gerard, where 
could you find a more joyous companion, a more interested 
listener tnan myself? You watch the King, and I watch you, 
that is about the truth of it. I was going out, but now that 
you have come, I gladly remain; for Lam ready to sacrifice 
all my personal interests to enjoy a talk with you. Kow 
what have you to tell me, honest Monsieur Gerard?” 

Not much of anything, sir.” 

‘‘So much the worse! So rnuch the worse!” 

M. Gerard shook his head, as if to deplore the lack of con- 
spiracies at that time. 

“ Go on,” said M. Jackal. 

“I caused the arrest of a man yesterday in front of the 
Cafe de Foy.” 

“What was he doing?” 

“He was a Bonapartist of the most virulent type,” 

“Tell me about it, dear Monsieur Gerard.” 

“ Well ” he said. 

“But his name? that is the first thing.” 

“I don’t know it, sir; and, of course, it would have been 
most imprudent to ask it.” 

“ Describe him.” 

“He was tall, broad shouldered, and robust. He wore a 
long blue coat buttoned to his chin, and a red ribbon in his 
button-hole.” 

“Some retired officer.” 

“That was precisely what I said to myself, particularly 
when 1 noticed his broad -brimmed hat, pressed down on his 
head.” 

“ Hot bad that. Monsieur Gerard — not bad for a beginning,” 
murmured the Chief of Police. “ You will see that we will 
make something out of you yet. Go on.” 

“He entered a cafe, and as he struck me as a suspicious 
character, I followed him.” 

‘ ‘ V ery good ! V ery good !” 

“ He seated himself at a table, and asked for a cup of cof- 
fee and a decanter of brandy, saying, in a very loud voice, 

‘ I'Can’t drink my coffee without a “ gloria.”* I love agloria.’ 
And he looked around to see if any one would reply to him.” 

“And no one answered?” 


A gloria’' is burned brandy and sugar in the coffee. 


44 


ROSE-DE-KOEL. 

‘‘No one. Then thinking he had not said enough, he be- 
gan again: ‘Long live the gloria!’ he cried.” 

“ Deuce take it all!” muttered M. Jackal, “that is very 
seditious. ‘Long live the gloria!’ is much as if he had said: 
‘ Yive la gloire!’” 

i “That is just what I thought. And as, under our pater- 
■ nal Government, there is no need to cry, ‘Vive la gloire!’ I 
at once began to suspect this man. ” 

“ You did well, brigand of the Loire!” 

“ I installed myself, therefore, at the table opposite his, 
determined to keep both eyes and ears open.” 

“Bravo! Monsieur Gerard.” 

“ He asked for a newspaper.” 

“Which one?” 

“ That is precisely what I do not know.” 

“Ah! That is a great mistake. Monsieur Gerard.” 

“I think it was the ConstitutionneV’ 

“It was the Constitutionnel” 

“You think so?” 

“I know it.” 

» “Well, then. Monsieur Jackal, if you know it 

“He asked for the Gonstitutionnel — go on.” 

“He asked for the Gonstitutionnel, but either in contempt 
or by accident he was holding it upside down, when one of 
his friends entered the cafe.” 

“How do you know that it was one of his friends, Mon- 
sieur Gerard?” 

“Because he was dressed precisely like him, except that 
his clothes were shabbier.” 

“All! I see. Go on — it was a friend, of course.” 

“I know it, too, because the second one went directly to the 
first, and offered him his hand. 

“ ‘ Good morning,’ said the first man, somewhat rudely. 

“ ‘ Good morning,’ said the other. ‘ You have come into a 
fortune, I see?’ 

“ ‘ Yes, you.’ 

“‘And why do you think that?’ 

“ ‘ Because you are in new clothes.’ 

“ ‘ My wife presented them to me on my birthday.’ 

“‘I thought, perhaps, you had been paid.’ 

“ ‘No. And I fancy we must continue to wait some time 
longer the pleasure of our correspondent at Vienna.’” 

“The Due de Reichstadt,” said M. Jackal. 

That was what I thouglit,” Gerard replied. 


ROSE-DE-XOEL. 45 

know,’ continued the first man, ^that this same 
Vienna correspondent was coming to Paris?’ 

‘‘‘Yes, I know,’ answered the other, ‘but he was pre- 
vented.’ 

“ ‘ A thing that is deferred is not always lost.’” 

“Ah! I see. Monsieur Gerard. What you are telling me 
does not amount to very much, but you have done very 
well ” 

“ There is more to tell you, sir.” 

“Go on, then,” and M. Jackal pulled out his snuff-box 
and took a pinch with an air of satisfaction. 

M. Gerard continued: 

“The first man said: 

“ ‘ What a fine coat!’ and then he passed his hand over the 
cloth. 

“ ‘ Very handsome,’ answered the other, proudly, 

“ ‘ A magnificent nap; but is it not a little large for you?’ 

“ ‘ How do you mean ?’ 

‘“I mean that it is not so tight a fit as soldiers usually 
wear.’” 

“ Which proves,” observed M. Jackal, “ that you were right 
in thinking him a soldier.” 

“‘No, it is not too large,’ answered the first man. ‘I 
like large things myself. Vive I’Empereur!’ ” 

“‘Vive I’Empereur! Do you mean that he said ‘Vive 
I’Empereur!’ apropos of his coat?” 

“There does not seem to be much connection,” answered 
Gerard, somewhat embarrassed, “but he certainly said 
‘ Vive I’Empereur!’ ” 

M. Jackal took another pinch of snuff very noisily. 

“ You can put down in your report that he said ^ Vive 
I’Empereur !Y’ 

“Yes, I will set that down,” stammered M. Gerard, his 
embarrassment momentarily increasing. “ Of course, on 
hearing these seditious words, everybody looked around, 
and I instantly left the cafeJ^ 

“ I see.” 

“ At the door I met two agents; I pointed out my man to 
them, and I did not go away until they had him by the 
coliar.” 

“ Bravo! Monsieur Gerard, but it is a little odd that I 
have heard nothing about this man?” 

“ But, I assure you, sir, that I witnessed his arrest.” 

M. Jackal rang the bell. The usher appeared. 

“Call Gibassier,” said M. Jackal. J 


ROSE-DE-NOEL. 


40 

The man departed. 

M. Jackal turned to his table and looked over his papers. 

“Strange!” he murmured. “There is nothing here in 
regard to this matter.” 

The usher reappeared. 

“Well,” said the Chief of Police. 

“ Monsieur Gibassier is here.” 

“Show him in.” 

“ He says, that as you are not alone ” 

“ He is right. Monsieur Gibassier is, like yourself, Gerard, 
a modest man, and does not wish to be seen ; he is like, a 
violet, detected only by the odor. Go into the next room. 
Monsieur Gerard, if you please.” 

Gerard, who was quite as reluctant to be seen as was 
Gibassier, promptly obeyed, carefully closing the door after 
him.” 

“Come in, Gibassier,” called the Chief of Police. “lam 
alone now.” 

Gibassier entered with his usual smiling face. 

“What is this, Gibassier? Important arrests have been 
made, and I am not informed.” 

Gibassier opened his eyes wide; his very attitude expressed: 
“Explain yourself!” 

“Yesterday,” said M. Jackal, “a man was arrested who 
cried ^ Vive I’Empereurr ” 

Where was that, sir?” 

“At the Cafe de Eoy.” 

“No sir, you are mistaken; he did not say ^ Vive PEm- 
pereur! he said ‘Vive Tampleur!’ ” 

“ You afh mistaken. Monsieur Gibassier.” 

“ Permit me to say that I am certain of what I say,” 

“ How can you be certain?” 

“ Because I was the man.” 

M. Jackal lifted his spectacles, and looked at Gibassier 
with one -of those silent laughs which were hab.tual to him. 

“Upon my word!” he exclaimed, “ this is a fine result of 
having a double police!” 

And going to the room where Gerard had shut liimself 
in, he called out: 

“You can come hack, Gerard.” 

“ You are alone then?” asked Gerard through the door, 

“Alone, or what amounts to the same thing,” 

Gerard entered with his usual timidity. 

“Oh! he exclaimed on seing Gibassier. “Who is this?” 


ROSE-DE-XOEL. 


47 


You recognize liini then?’' 

Most certainly I do;’’ and whispering in the ear of Mon- 
sieur Jackal, G6raid said: 

It is my ofiScer of the Cafe de Foyl” 

M. Jackal took Gerard’s hand. 

^‘Permit me, dear Monsieur Gerard, to present to you 
Monsieur Gibassier, ray Assistant-Chief of Brigade.” 

Then addressing Gibassier: 

‘‘My dear Gibassier,” he said, “allow me. to present Mon- 
sieur Gerard, one of our most devoted agents.” 

“Gerard?” said Gibassier. 

“ Yes, the honest Monsieur Gerard from Vanvres, of whom 
you have heard.” 

Gibassier bowed with an air of great respect, and left the 
room. 

“What did you mean by saying, of whom you have heard?” 
asked M. Gerard, turning very pale. “ Does this Gibassier 
know?” 

“Everything, my dear sir.” 

The assassin became perfectly livid. 

“ But you need not be uneasy,” saidM. Jackal: “Gibassier 
is a part of myself.” 

“Oh sir, why did you let that man see me?” stammered 
the spy. 

“Because it is advisable that men serving in the same 
regiment should know each Other.” 

Then, in a voice whose every syllable struck like a hammer 
on G6rard’s heart, M. Jackal said: 

“ Is it not also important that he should know you, that 
he may release you, should some stupid blunderer chance to 
arrest vou in your turn?” 

At the thought of being arrested, M. Gerard dropped into 
the arm-chair. • / 

But M. Jackal was not moved in the least, and quietly 
seated himself on an ordinary chair in front of him. 


CHAPTER IX. 

GOOD ADVICE. 

M. Jackal allowed his companion a few minutes in which 
to recover his self-possession. 

Finally Gerard looked up. 

M. Jackal shrugged his shoulders impatiently, as he said; 


48 


KOSE-DE-Is”'OEI^ 


I can’t help it, you know.” 

‘‘ How do you mean?” 

I mean that mistakes must be made sometimes; and 
your cross of the Legion of Honor is only a little further off.” 

Gerard was quite cheered by these words. 

But have you nothing more to tell me?” asked the Chief 
of Police. 

^"Nothing, sir.” 

‘‘ The deuce you haven’t! Then I will tell you something 
that will interest you, perhaps.” And M. Jackal, lifting his 
spectacles, fixed his lynx eyes on his companion, who became 
paler than ever. 

M. Gerard was protected by the mandate of his superior 
officer; nevertheless Jackal had by no means relinquished his 
right of moral torture. Sarranti’s calm, stoical nature he could 
not disturb, particularly now that he was in the cell of the 
condemned; but Gerard was to some degree in his power. 

This, Gerard well understood; and this was why he changed 
color under M. Jackal’s eyes. 

Each time that he left the Rue de Jerusalem, it was with 
the sensations of a man who has been subjected to the tort- 
ures of the Inquisition. 

Pale and silent, M. Gerard lent an attentive ear to what 
was said. 

But the cat had the mouse under its paw, and enjoyed 
playing with it. 

M. Jackal took out his snuff-box, and took a long, enjoy- 
able pinch. 

M. Gerard did not venture to hurry the movements of this 
important person, and listened with almost pathetic resigna- 
tion. 

‘•'You Know, dear Monsieur Gerard,” said Jackal, at last, 

“ that in eight days the time granted by the King to Sarranti 
will expire.” 

“I know it,” answered Gerard, uneasily. > 

“You know, too, that the Abbe Dominique may return to- | 
morrow, day after to-morrow, to-day even?’' 

“ Yes — yes, I know it,” said the philanthropist, trembling 
in every limb. 

“If you tremble in this way when we merely speak of the 
matter, you will certainly faint dead away when you learn 
more; and if you faint, you can’t hear what I still have to 
tell you, which, I think, is very interesting.” 

“I can’t help it,” answered Gerard, doggedly. 

But what have you to fear from the Abbe Dominique, 


ROSE-DE-KOEL. 


49 


when I have told you that the Pope has refused to comply 
with his request?” 

G6rard drew a loiig breath of relief. 

“ But do you believe it?” he asked. 

‘^We know his Holiness Gregory XVH.; he is made of 
iron.” 

Gerard smiled faintly. 

No,” said Jackal; we have nothing to fear in that 
quarter.” 

You mean,” sighed Gerard, that I have something else 
to fear.” 

^‘Ah! dear Monsieur Gerard, are you so unphilosophical 
that you do not know that man, feeble creature that he is, 
would not know a moments peace, if he were aware of the 
innumerable dangers by which he is surrounded, and which 
he escapes by a constant succession of miracles.” 

Alas’” murmured M. Gerard, ^‘that is a great truth.” 

As you agree with me,” M. Jackal resumed, with a pro- 
found bow, “ I desire to ask one question.” 

‘‘ Pray do so, sir.” 

Poets claim, you know-— but perhaps you do not care for 
poetry?” 

“ I know nothing of it — not four lines, sir,” 

“Well, then, poets pretend that the dead sometimes rise 
from their graves. What do you believe?” 

M. Gerard murmured several unintelligible words, and 
trembled more than ever. 

“I never did believe it,” said M. Jackal; “but a fact re- 
cently came to my knowledge which has shaken my unbelief. 
This is the story; I allow you to judge for yourself: A man 
of your temperament, of your character, in short, a philan- 
thropist like yourself, in an unfortunate moment — for no 
one is perfect. Monsieur Gerard, I feel this more strongly 
than any one — in an unfortunate moment, as I was saying, 
drowned his nephew, and not knowing what to do with the 
body, buried it in his park.” 

M. Gerard uttered a sigh and bowed his head. 

“He thought it was hidden there; but after all, the earth 
is not as discreet sometimes as one might wish, and only this 
morning — by the way, the man went out as you came in — a 
man came to see me, and said to me, Monsieur Jackal, in a 
week an innocent man is to be executed.’ 

“Of course I denied this, dear Monsieur Gerard, and said 
that when the courts had pronounced the guilt of a man that 
there was nothing more to be said; but he persisted. ‘This 


50 


ROSE-DE-JsOEL. 


man is innocent/ he repeated, ^and I know the real crim- 
inaV ” 

M. G6rard hid his face in his hands. 

‘‘I denied it again, continued M. Jackal, '‘but this man 
stopped me: 'Can you givo me this night?’ ‘No,’ I an- 
swered. 'To-morrow night, then?’ he asked. To this I 
agreed, but naturally asked what we were to do. He said 
we were to go on an excursion out of Paris, and that he would 
then and there offer me the proof I asked.” 

"You accepted this proposition, then?” stammered Ge- 
rard. 

"How could I do otherwise? You know my mission. 
Prudhon had a picture called 'Justice in Pursuit of Crime’; 
and you know my device is that of the Genevese philosopher, 
'Vitam impendere vero.’ I was, of course, obliged to say 
that I would go — not to-night, of course.” 

" Yes, I see,” answered Gerard, whose teeth were now 
going like castanets. 

"Ah!” said Jackal, "you are interested in my story.” 

"I don’t precisely understand, however,” said Gerard, 
with a strong effort at self-control, "why you tell me this 
story.” 

"Don’t understand why? You astonish me! I said to 
myself, ' Monsieur Gerard is a philanthropist. When he 
knows the great danger incurred by this poor devil, he will 
at once put himself in the place of this assassin and murderer; 
he will feel all the agony of this unfortunate man as keenly 
as if he himself were guilty.’ I see I was right, dear Monsieur 
Gerard.” ' 

"No, indeed, sir — no!” cried Gerard. 

"To-morrow night, then, I am going with this other 
philanthropist — who, by the way, is not m the least like you, 
dear Monsieur G6rard, for there are different kinds of phi- 
lanthropists — I am going with him; I have not the least idea 
where, for he told me nothing, but I have reasons for think- ' 
ing it is near the Cour-de-France.” 

"Near the Cour-de-France?” 

"Yes; and when we reach the park we shall enter— I don’t 
know how— and will turn to the right or the left— to the 
right, probably— and shall find the skeleton in a hole. We 
wfll write down our statement, and will bring the result of 
our labors to Paris and lay it before the Procureur du Hoi, 
who will then be compelled to ask that the execution of Mon- 
sieur Sarranti shall be postponed.” 


ROSE-BE-l^OEL. 


61 


^'Monsieur Sarranti!’’ cried Gerard. 

‘‘Did I say Monsieur Sarranti?’’ The name escaped me. 
The name of that man is, for some reason, perpetually on my 
lips. But to go on: a new trial will be ordered, and the real 
criminal found. You understand?” 

“Perfectly,” answered Gerard. 

“ This is a terrible position for this poor assassin — this un- 
fortunate murderer. To-day he walks in the free air and 
sunshine, with his hands in his pockets, and presently the 
police will swoop down upon him; he will be taken out of the 
sunshine and put in the shade; his hands will be pulled from 
his pockets and manacled; diis tranquillity will be destroyed, 
his serenity forever disturbed, and he will bitterly repent of 
not having snatched at the way of safety that I pointed out 
to him.” 

“But is there one?” 

“ Upon my word, dear Monsieur Gerard, your head must 
be very hard and your memory very short.” 

“Ah!” cried honest M. G6rard, “I have listened with all 
my ears.” 

“ Which proves that the result is not always to be measured 
by the capacity. Did I not tell you that I refused to go to- 
night?” 

“Yes, you did.” 

“And that I have postponed the excursion until to-morrow 
night, or even the night after?” 

Yes, you said that.” 

“Well, then?” 

Gerard sat with his mouth open, waiting. 

M. Jackal shrugged his shoulders at this stupidity. 

“Upon my word,” he exclaimed, “only an honest man 
like yourself would have failed to grasp my meaning.” 

Gerard wrung his hands despairingly, and a hoarse sound 
from his parched lips may have meant, “ Go on, I beg of 
you.” 

“ I know, of course, that you cannot feel any absorbing in- 
terest in this matter,” continued M. Jackal; “but suppose, 
for a moment, that this crime had been committed by your- 
self — an unlikely supposition, of course — that, instead of 
being buried by some one else, you had dug this grave. Sup- 
pose that this tragedy had taken place on your property, at 
the Chateau de Viry, for example; suppose you knew that 
to-morrow night, or the night after, there would be a descent 
of the police on the chateau, and that the park was to be 
searched, what would you do to-night?” 


53 


rvORE-T)T:->q'OEL. 


Do to-ni£ht?” 

^‘Yes.” '■ 

‘^In order that nothing should be found, you mean?^^ 

Yes, precisely. What would you do?” 

Gerard wiped his clammy brow. 

I would ” 

^‘Well?” 

I would carry away the skeleton.” 

^^Magnificent! Ah, Monsieur Gerard, your imagination 
must be quickened by fresh air, work in the field, and night 
breezes. I give you to-day and to-morrow. It will be a 
splendid day. Go to the country, spend ifc in the woods of 
Meudon or Vanvres, and perhaps you will encounter that 
poor devil. You may, perhaps, assist him, with your usual 
charity, and preserve him from the danger of his present po- 
sition,” 

^‘1 understand,” cried Gerard, kissing the hand of the 
mighty man. thank you.” 

Pshaw!” said M. Jackal, disdainfully, drawing his hand 
from the assassin; '‘do you think that it was with the wish 
of saving your miserable carcass that I have done all this? 
Go! You are warned — it is your affair now.” 

Gerard left the room. 

“Beast!” said Jackal, as the door closed behind him. 


CHAPTEE X. 

A coachman’s precautions. 

M. Gerard left the Hdtel de Jerusalem in great haste. 

On reaching the quay he threw himself into a carriage, and 
called to the coachman: 

“By the hour, and ten francs the hour if you make two 
leagues in the hour.” 

“Agreed. Where, then, citizen?” 

“To Vanvres.” 

In' an hour’s time they were at Vanvres. 

“Shall I wait, citizen?” asked the coachman, 

Gerard hesitated. He had both carriages and horses, but 
he feared some indiscretion on the part of his coachman, and 
concluded that an entire stranger would be better — a man 
whom he would never see again. 

He resolved to keep him. 

But he did not dare to retain him at the same price, lest 
he should excite his suspicion. 


ROSE-DE-NOEU 53 

The wish to drive fast had induced him to commit some 
imprudence— he must not be guilty of another. 

have, unfortunately, missed the lady after whom I was 
hurrying. She has, unfortunately, gone to Viry-sur-Orge.’’ 

I am sorry for you, citizen — very sorry for you.’’ 

“ And yet I want to see her,” murmured Gerard, as if 
talking to himself. ♦ 

“I can drive you to Viry-sur-Orge, citizen; it won’t take 
us so very long.” 

“Yes; but you know I can get to Viry-sur-Orge for three 
francs.” 

“Yes, I dare say; but then you would be with all sorts of 
people, in a public conveyance, while in my fiacre you would 
be alone.” 

“I know that,” answered M. Gerard, who naturally wished 
to be alone, “and that in itself is a great thing.” 

“ Well, then, citizen, how much will you give poor Barnabe 
for driving you to Yiry?” 

“You would have to come back here again.” 

“Yes, I will do that.” 

“ And wait for me here?” 

“Yes.” 

“What will you charge me for this? Be reasonable, 
now.” 

“ To go and come — I will say thirty francs.” 

“And for waiting?” 

“ We will call the hours of waiting forty sous each. That 
is fair enough.” 

Gerard could make no objection; but, in order to allay any 
possible suspicion, he bargained for awhile, and five francs 
were taken off. 

When the price was fixed for twenty-five francs to go and 
come, and forty sous an hour for w'aiting, M. Gerard took 
from his office the key of the Chdteau de Viry and entered 
the carriage once more. 

“ Through Fromenteau?” asked BarnabA 

“Yes, if you choose,” answered Gerard, who cared little 
bv what road he went, so that he got to his destination. 

The carriage drove off very rapidly. 

Barnab6 was an honest fellow who wished to earn his money 
loyally. 

’’When, therefore, Gerard reached Viry it was still daylight, 
and of course impossible for him to pursue the ghastly enter- 
prise that had brought him there. 

He pulled his hat down further over his eyes, and leaving 


54 


ROSE-DE-KOEL. 


the coachman at the inn, ordered him to rest until eleren 
o’clock. 

At that hour he was to be at the door of the chdteau. 

M. Gerard opened the door and closed it after him, thus 
escaping the curious eyes of a dozen children and several old 
women who had been attracted by the sound of a carriage. 

The sensations of this philanthropist on efttering his 
brother’s home, where he had murdered one of this brother’s 
children, may be better imagined than described. We will, 
therefore, make no attempt to depict his emotions as he as- 
cended the steps and entered the fatal mansion. 

When he passed the lake he turned his head away. 

After closing the door of the vestibule he was obliged to 
lean for support against the wall. His strength was gone. 

He ascended to his own chamber with difficulty. As will 
be remembered, the windows of this room looked out on the 
pond. 

It was from one of these windows that he had seen Bresil 
plunge into the water and bring out the body of little Victor. 

He drew the curtains close, that he might not see the 
pond. 

But the curtains thus drawn made the room very dark, 
and he dared not stay in the darkness. 

Two ends of candles were still in the candelabra on the 
mantel-shelf. Gerard had taken the precaution to bring 
matches. 

He lighted the candles, and then, a little more at ease, 
waited until it was dark. 

About nine o’clock he thought it dark enough to begin his 
operations. 

He must first procure a shovel; there ought to be one in 
the 'shed where the garden tools were kept. 

Gerard went down stairs, and out of doors; the pond glit- 
tered in the darkness like a mirror of steel. He hurried into 
the narrow path which led to the kitchen-garden, and to the 
shed where he hoped to find the shovel. When he reached 
the shed, however, he found it locked, and the key was not 
in the door. 

There was a window, fortunately. 

Gerard went up to it with the intention of breaking a pane 
of glass, and unfastening the window, and so reaching the in- 
terior of the shed. But as he raised his hand he stopped, 
terrified by the thought of the noise he would make. 

He stood with his hand on his heart, waiting, and in this 
way lost a quarter of an hour. He suddenly remembered a 


I?OSE-Dt:-3sOEL. 


55 


diamond that he wore on his little finger. With this stone 
he deftly cut the glass, and removed it without a sound. 

In another moment he had turned the fastening, and 
opened the window. He looked around to assure himself 
that there was no one within sight, and then stepped through 
the window. Once within this shed he began to feel about 
for the utensil he required. He felt two or three hand- 
rakes and pickaxes before he found what he required. 

Finally he grasped the shovel and departed. 

The clock struck ten. 

He suddenly remembered that it would be much shorter for 
him to go out of that park gate which was nearest the Pont 
Godeau, than to go back by that terrible pond, which would 
naturally be still more appalling after the accomplishment of 
the business on which he had come. 

He also came to another decision : he would go and find the 
coachman, to tell him to come to that gate at eleven, rather 
than to the one at the chateau itself. 

Gerard opened this last gate, and, hiding his shovel in a 
corner, glided along in the shadow of the houses until he 
reached the wine-shop. 

But when he arrived, he suddenly changed his mind. A 
carriage standing at^any one of the park gates could not fail 
to be noticed. It would be much more prudent to tell the 
man to wait for him at a certain place on the high-road to 
Fontainebleau. 

When Gerard reached the cabaret he looked in at the win- 
dows. 

He saw his man drinking and playing cards. 

G6rard did not care to show himself in the cabaret, where 
he might be recognized, though he was horribly changed 
since he left Viry. 

But as Barnabe had no means of knowing that he was be- 
hind the glass, and wished to speak to him, Gerard was 
obliged to open the dobr, and beckon to the coachman to 
come to him. 

It took M. Gerard full fifteen minutes to arrive at this de- 
cision. He hoped that some one would be going in, by whom 
he could send a message to Barnabe. 

But this did not come to pass, and Gerard was obliged to 
enter. 

When we say enter, we exaggerate, however. Gerard did 
not enter, he simply opened the door a little way, and called 
out in a trembling voice: 

You are wanted, Barnabe r — . 


56 


UOSE-DlS-KOEIi. 


But Barnabe was deep in cards, and Gerard was compelled 
to speak several times, and each time raising his voice. 

Finally Barnabe lifted his nose from his cards. 

Ah! Is that you, citizen?’’ he said. 

Yes, it is L” 

*^Do you want to go now?” 

Not yet.” 

Glad of it, for the poor animals are not yet rested.” 

I want to speak to you a moment.” 

All right!” 

And Barnabe came to the door, disturbing as many players 
as was possible. 

Every face was turned to the door, and M. Gerard drew 
quickly back into the shadow. 

Upon my word!” said one of the etistomers of the cabaret, 

does your citizen think he will be disgraced if he enters 
this inn?” 

He is a lover, who has an appointment,” said another, 
laughing. 

“ Here I am, citizen,” said Barnabe. What can I do for 
you?” 

Gerard explained the changes in the programme, and that 
he wanted the carriage to wait for him on the highway, in- 
stead of at the chateau. 

This explanation was frequently interrupted by little dis- 
satisfied grunts, and Gerard saw that there was something in 
the new plan that did not suit Barnabe, 

Finally the coachman said: 

But suppose we don’t meet on the highway?” 

How is it possible that we should not meet?” 

You might pass without seeing me.” 
think not; my eyes are excellent.” 

^^But there are some people who are afflicted with short- 
sightedness, when they have had a carriage fourteen hours, 
and owe a coachman fifty francs. I have known people — I 
don’t mean you, for you look to be as honest a man as ever 
breathed — but I have known people who, after they had kept 
me all day, got out about five o’clock at the Passage Dau- 
phine, or some other place like that, and who said to me, 
‘ Wait here, coachman; I am coming back.’ ” 

^^Well?” 

They never came back, that is all.” 

'‘But, my friend^ you surely do not think me capable 


ROSE-DE-XOEL. 


57 


Oh, I trust you, of course— I believe in you; but you 
see ” 

‘^Ob, if this be all!” said M. Gerard, as be took two louis 
from his pocket and gave them to Bariiabe. 

The man held them up to the H^ht that came through the 
half-open door, to assure himself that the louis were good. 

I will be waiting for you a hundred feet from the Cour- 
de-France at eleven o’clock, as was agreed. When I am paid 
in advance, of course I have no further diflBculties to make.” 

“It is my turn, however, to make difficulties,” said 
G6rard. 

“How do you mean?” 

Q6rard hesitated. 

“ Suppose I should not meet you on the highway?” 

“ And why not?” 

“When payment is made in advance, you know ” 

“ Do you distrust Barnahe?” 

“You distrusted me.” 

“ You have no number, and I have one, a famous one, 
too; a number that brings good luck to anyone who looks at 
it pass — number one.” 

“I should greatly prefer that it brought happiness to those 
who were inside,” said M. Gerard, endeavoring to calm the 
enthusiasm of the man. 

“Well, at all events, I will be waiting for you at eleven, a 
hundred feet from the Cour-de-France.” 

“Very good, but you need not talk so loud, my friend.” 

“I won’t— but I had no idea that you had any reasons for 
concealing yourself.” 

“You are mistaken!” cried M. Gerard; “ I have no desire 
to conceal myself.” 

“Oh, I don’t care; it is none of my business — ^Out of 
sight, out of mind’ — but I will be on hand at eleven.” 

“ I will try not to keep you waiting,” 

“ Oh, I don’t mind. You have taken me by the hour, and 
if you wish me to drive you to the Valley of Jehoshaphat I will 
do~ so; you will probably be the first one to go there in a 
fiacre.^’ 

And, quite pleased with his own witticism, Barnabe laughed 
and returned to the wine-shop, while M. Gerard, wiping the 
sweat from his brow, took his way to the chateau. 


5S 


ROSE-DE-NOEL. 


CHAPTER XI. 

DIFFICULTIES. 

M. Gerard found the gate half open and his shovel lean- 
ing against the wall. He closed the gate, locked it, and put 
the key in his pocket. 

Suddenly he started; his eyes were fixed on the windows of 
the chateau — two were lighted. 

The poor wretch was aghast with terror. At last he re- 
membered the two candles he had lighted, and realized the 
impruden(5e of which he had been guilty. 

This light others could see as well as himself, and it would 
lead to a hundred conjectures. 

He hurried toward the chateau, avoiding the pond as much 
as possible, and ran up the stairs. 

On reaching the bedroom he blew out one candle, and was 
about to extinguish the other, when he recollected that he 
must cross the corridor in the darkness. He bad not re- 
membered this, having thought only of the danger of the 
light. 

The material danger conquered, the imaginary peril re- 
turned. 

What reason had M. Gerard for fear in the corridors of 
an empty house? 

He feared ghosts and phantoms. 

In the darkness, Gerard fancied he should hear steps be- 
hind him. He feared lest a specter should appear as he 
turned a corner — the ghost of a woman, or a child— for there 
had been two murders, if not three, committed in this ac- 
cursed house. 

This was the reason that Gerard preferred to^keep a candle 
burning. 

He could go out by two doors — the hall door, or the door 
in the cellar. When he reached the vestibule he hesitated, 
for in front of that door was the pond, the terrible pond. 

Before he could reach the cellar door he must pass through 
the room where Orsola had been strangled. 

M. Gerard remembered the blood on the stones; neverthe- 
less he preferred the cellar door, for he had had nothing to 
do with those stains. 

He took the candle in one hand, the shovel in the other; 


ROSE-DE-KOEL. 


§9 

went down the stairs and through the kitchen, where he hes- 
itated a moment before he pushed open the cellar door, shook 
his head to throw off the drops of sweat on his brow — both 
his hands being occupied, he could not use his handker- 
chief. 

He pushed the door with his foot, and the wind blew out 
his candle. 

He stood motionless in the darkness. He had uttered one 
cry as the light went out, and then checked himself, lest his 
voice should awaken the dead. 

He must either cross the cellar or go back. If he went 
back, would not Orsola’s ghost follow him? He preferred to 
continue his way. 

What his feelings were during the five minutes that he 
spent in that cellar is impossible tq describe. 

At last he reached the door. It was locked, and the key 
was rusted in the lock; he could not move it. 

The unfortunate man was in despair; he felt that he could 
never cross that cellar again. He gathered all his strength 
together — the lock yielded, and the door opened. 

The fresh air struck his forehead and froze the sweat that 
stood upon it in beads; but the sensation was delightful, after 
the stifling atmosphere of the cellar. His lungs dilated. He 
opened his lips to thank God, but he dared not. 

* If there were a God, how could he, Gerard, be free and 
Sarranti be in prison? 

It is true that Sarranti was at that moment sleeping calmly, 
while Gerard was shivering with terror, watching and wait- 
ing. 

Why was he watching and waiting? What was the terrible 
task that he had set himself? 

He had come to exhume and conceal the bones of his 
victim. 

Should he have the courage to do so? Should he have the 
strength? 

He would, at all events, make the attempt. 

He crossed the space, with a firm and rapid step, between 
the chateau and the park. But when he found himself under 
the huge trees, where the mysterious darkness of the forest 
extended before him, and on the right and the left, he was 
again frozen with terror. 

He saw the great oak-tree before him. His knees shook. 
He felt as if he were going to the scaffold, and then asked 
himself if the scaffold were not preferable. 

If some murderous blow had felled him to the ground, and 


60 


r6se-de-noel. 


he could have died then and there, he would have been 
thankful. But the long- continued agony of a trial, and of a 
prison, the executioner, and the scaffold, the steps that he 
must mount with an assistant on either side — all these things 
made up a hideous and impossible death. 

When the assassin pictured this to himself, he felt that it 
was much better to disinter the dead child, and die of terror 
while doing so, than to be guillotined. 

He began his work. First he looked for the exact spot. 
He knelt, and felt with his hand. He trembled from head 
to foot — not with horror at what he was doing, dreadful as 
it was, but for another reason. 

It seemed to him that in this spot, so familiar to himself, 
the earth had been recently moved. 

Was he too late? 

One fear gave place to another. 

He plunged his hand into the soil, and uttered a cry of joy. 
The skeleton was there still. 

He had touched the soft hair which had so terrified Sal- 
vator. 

It reassured him, but 

He began to dig. 

Let us turn away from this appalling scene. Let us look 
up at those beautiful stars, set thick in the azure heavens. 

Let us listen. Perhaps some stray notes of the celestial 
melodies sung by the angels who adore our Lord, may reach 
our ears. 

It will be time to turn our eyes upon the earth when this 
man emerges from the shadow of the trees, carrying a shovel 
in one trembling hand, and in the other some formless mass, 
hidden in the folds of his cloak. 

What is he seeking, with those haggard, restless eyes? 

He is looking for a place to which he may confide the 
horrible testimony he has just removed. 

M. Gerard walked to the other side of the park, and, lay- 
ing his cloak on the ground, began to dig. 

But presently he stopped, and, shaking his head, mur- 
mured : 

‘‘No, no — not here!” 

He took up his cloak, and moved on some hundred feet; 
stopped a second time; hesitated, and then shaking his head 
again, said: 

“Too near the other.” 

He had a brilliant idea. 


ROSE-DE-NOEL. 61 

He once more gathered up the cloak, and with the same 
rapid step started off again. 

This time he went to the pond, and did not stop to think 
of the specter that haunted it, for he held the specter close 
in the folds of his cloak. 

He reached the edge of the pond, and laying the cloak on 
the turf, began to open it. At that moment he heard a long 
melancholy howl. 

It came from a dog on a neighboring farm. 

^'No! no!” he said, ‘^not here! A dog has already taken it 
once from out the water. The pond may be emptied; the 
skeleton would be found in that case. What am I to do? 
My God, help me!” 

This prayer ascended to Heaven as if it had not been blas- 
phemous. 

‘‘Ah!” murmured the miserable man, “I have it!” 

And M. Gerard determined to carry these bones away with 
him, and bury them in his garden at Vanvres. 

At Vanvres, M. Gerard was known as “the honest Gerard.” 

Once more he gathered up the cloak, and leaving the spade, 
hurried toward the gate which Opened on the Pont Godeau. 
He had the key of this gate, and opened it without difficulty. 

Strangely enough, while he bore this skeleton about with 
him in this way, all his supernatural terrors had vanished. 

Poland has shown us the precise road taken by Gerard. 

Barnabe had kept his word, and was waiting with his 
Uacre at the appointed place. He was asleep, but wakened 
as M. Gerard opened the carriage door. 

“Is that you, citizen?” asked Barnabe. 

“ Yes, it is I; but you need not descend from your box.” 

“Shall I take that bundle up here?” said the coachman. 
“It seems to be in your way,” and Barnabe extended his 
hand to the cloak. 

“No, indeed!” cried M. Gerard, in terror; “they are rare 
plants which require the greatest care. I will carry them on 
my knees.” 

“Just as you please. Are we to return now?” 

“To Vanvres!” said M. Gerard. 

The coachman touched the horses with his whip, and the 
heavy carriage rolled off. 

And these are the reasons why Salvator did not find the 
skeleton under the big oak that he had come to seek. 


^2 BOSE-DE-KOBI., 


CHAPTER XII. 

AN AMATEUR OF PAINTING. 

The affluence of amateurs who visited atelier oi Petrus 
was so great that there was literally a long line of carriages 
at the door. 

It was on the following Sunday that the sale was to begin 
— that is to say in three days. 

It was Thursday, and eleyen o’clock in the morning; the 
studio was crowded, and the hum of voices deafening. 

In the adjoining room there was, on the contrary, solitude 
and silence. 

We should hardly have said solitude, for the room was occu- 
pied by Petrus. 

He was seated near the window, with his elbow on a small 
table, where lay an open letter which he had read but once, 
but whose every word was written on both heart and memory 
in letters of fire. 

The young man was evidently crushed to the earth. Occa- 
sionally he pressed his hands to his ears to shut out the noise 
in his studio; occasionally, too, a big tear dropped from his 
eyes, falling on the open letter. 

Why had Petrus, who, at Salvator’s bidding, had resolutely 
taken his part, now returned paler and more vacillating than 
ever? 

It was because he had received a letter from R6gina, and 
this letter had broken the young man’s resolutions. 

It will be remembered that as he left Regina she had given 
him the sweet promise of a letter; but she had said nothing 
of its contents. 

She wished, with true feminine delicacy, that a perfume of 
happiness should haunt her lover. 

Petrus had received this letter. It was this on which he 
was gazing; it was this on which his tears were falling. 

My readers will see that Petrus had reason to weep — to 
weep over a lost happiness. 

This is the letter: 

My beloved Vandyke, — I promised you when we 
parted yesterday to send you a bit of news to*^“day, and this 
is it. 


ROSE-DE-KOEL. 


63 


My father’s birthday will be here in a month, and my 
aunt and I have decided that we will make the Marshal a 
present of little Bee’s portrait. 

Yesterday, moreoyer, the Comte Rappt was sent by the 
King on a special mission to the Court of St. Petersburg, 
which will detain him at least six weeks. 

You understand, do you not? Of course, when this was 
settled, it was a very simple thing to determine that the artist 
who should paint the portrait of the Marshal’s favorite should 
be Monsieur Petrus Herbel de Courtenay. 

“ Y^ou know that this last name has an enormous effect on 
the Marquise de la Tournelle, who bends the knee before 
coronets. 

I have nothing more to say, then, except that from Sun- 
day week there will be a daily sitting at the studio of Mon- 
sieur P6trus Herbel de Courtenay. 

Little Bee will be taken to the studio by the Marquise de 
la" Tournelle, her great-aunt, and by the Comtesse Eegina, 
her big sister. There will be days when the Marchioness will be 
detained by her religions duties, or by ill health. Regina will 
then alone accompany her little sister. 

The portrait will be completed in a few sittings, or the . 
sittings may last a month, according to the skill and quick- 
ness of the artist. 

‘‘Provided that the portrait is good, no fault will be found 
with the artist for whatever time he may demand from his 
sitter. 

“ In order that there may be no discussion about price, it 
has been fixed in advance at two hundred louis. 

“But as Monsieur Petrus Herbel de Courtenay is probably 
too proud to accept payment for this work, it is also agreed 
that he shall employ this sum in alms, and in giving to little 
Rose-de-Noel a dress of the heavenly blue so much desired by 
poor Plau-d’Ane. 

“ Therefore, my dear Vandyke, you may expect to see 
on Sunday next, at noon, little Bee, the Marquise de la Tour- 
nelle, and your most loving Regina.” 

It was this letter which, in spite of the good news it con- 
tained, had driven Petrus to despair. 

Sunday, at noon, Regina would come with her aunt and 
her sister, and what would they three find? 

The sheriff selling the pictures and the furniture of the 
artist! 


6’4 


K011E-DJ>N0EL. 


How would Petrus endure this shame? He was tempted 
to fly, to exile himself, and never see llegina again. 

But not to see Regina would be to renounce life. 

It was more than that — it was to carry a dead heart in a 
living body. 

For a moment Petrus regretted — not having rescued his 
father from ruin, for this thought never entered his mind- 
hut not having accepted the offer made by Jean Robert. 

Petrus said to himself that he need only have worked 
with his former energy to j^store to Jean Robert in a very 
brief space of time the money that he borrowed from him. 

His brief idleness, his luxury, his carriage and horses, 
would have produced, commercially speaking, a most excel- 
lent effect. It would have been supposed that he had inher- 
ited a fortune from an uncle, and from that moment his 
pictures would have doubled in price. 

If, at this moment, it were in his power to borrow a sum 
of ten thousand francs, he would paint pictures enough to 
return this borrowed money wdthin three months, no matter 
how heavy the interest might be which he had agreed to pay? 

Why did he not ask Salvator to lend him this sum? 

No. He could not endure to meet the wondering reproach 
in Salvatores eyes. 

Petrus shook his head, and, replying to his own thoughts, 
said aloud: 

‘‘No — no; anything rather than apply to Salvator.” 

It is true that he added : 

“ But, then, to lose Regina!” 

At this moment a new visitor entered the studio. As this 
new visitor is destined to play a distinguished part in the 
scenes we are to describe, our readers must permit us to 
abandon Petrus to his dark thoughts to look at this 
stranger. 

He was a man of forty or fifty, medium height, square 
shoulders, large throat, and wide chest. His head was cov- 
ered with reddish hair, much frizzed. His brows were jet 
black, offering a strange contrast to his hair, and were very 
bushy. His whiskers were brown with a reddish tinge, so 
thickly mingled, however, with gray that it was difficult to 
ascertain their color. 

The face of this man was frank, almost rough, but not 
wicked. 

A smile, on the contrary, perpetually on his lips, was 
jovial in the extreme. 


ROSE-DE-NOEL* 


65 


Though abrupt and rude on the surface, he was tender and 
kind in reality. 

At the first glance, one shrunk from him; at the second, 
one extended his hand cordiall3\ 

We have told his age, which was indicated by a double 
wrinkle, like a circumflex accent, on his forehead, over his 
nose. 

His profession was easy to determine after a brief exam- 
ination. 

In the first place, his walk showed the sailor by that move- 
ment of the hips peculiar to persons who have been much on 
the sea, and who even on a more solid element move with 
their legs wide apart. 

Then, too, the investigation of the curious might have 
been guided by another indication not less significant. The 
unknown wore large gold hoops in his ears. 

His dress was careful, but struck even the least fastidious 
as of rather equivocal taste. 

He wore a blue coat with brass buttons. It was left open 
to display a wide expanse of velvet vest, and an enormous 
quantity of gold chain. 

His pantaloons were in plaits over the hips, and fitting 
tight over the boots, in a style known at this time as Cossack 
pantaloons. The boots themselves were enormous, and 
showed the entire outline of a foot that Mature, in her 
maternal foresight, had evidently made to enable its owner 
to maintain a firm stand, even when the ocean was playing 
its most fantastic freaks. 

Ilis face blossomed out from a broad collar and huge white 
cravat, like a bunch of poppies in a frill of lace paper. 

A foulard handkerchief, of a plaid in red and green, was 
tied around his neck in what is called a sailor’s knot, and a 
wide-brimmed hat of soft, long-haired beaver completed this 
costume. 

Let us add that he carried in his hand a Malacca reed, 
which he had probably cut himself in the East or West 
Indies, which both boast of growing this remarkable vegeta- 
ble, and in honor of which he carried this cane, to which he 
had fitted a gold'head in proportion to its gigantic size. 

What could there be in a picture sale which could attract 
this singular person? 

If Petrus had been known as a marine painter, the visit of 
a retired sea-captain would not have been surprising. But 


ROSE-DE-K’OEL. 


sncli a man in the studio of an historical painter, or of a 
( 7 ^?/ re. pain ter, was indeed amazing. 

Consequently, on the arrival of this sailor, the attention of 
every one in the studio, until then concentrated on the pict- 
ures, was attracted by the new-comer. 

He, however, without being in the least disconcerted, 
stopped in the doorway, looked about him for a moment, and 
then, pulling out a pair'^of spectacles, adjusted them to his nose, 
and walked directly up to a picture of Chardin’s which seemed 
to liave attracted his notice. 

This picture represented a woman peeling vegetables for 
her soup. 

The fire, the soup-pot, and the vegetables were depicted 
with such fidelity that the sailor put his nose close to the 
canvas, and, drawing in his breath, said aloud: 

‘‘Upon my word, one can almost smell that soup!” Then, 
lifting his left hand with a movement that evinced the most 
boundless admiration, “Magnificent! Superb!” 

He spoke in the same loud tone that he might have used 
had he been entirely alone. Several visitors, who shared the 
opinion of this new-comer in regard to Chardin’s picture, 
gathered about him; while others, who did not sympathize, 
walked away. 

After having long and minutely examined this picture, he 
left it with an air of profound regret. Then, seeing one of 
Gudin’s marine views, he cried: 

“ Bless my soul, here’s water for you, and salt water, too! 
I must see that a little nearer.” 

Ho went so close to the canvas that he touched it with his 
nose. 

“ It is wonderful!” he said. “ Who painted this picture?” 

‘•A very young man, sir,” answered an old gentieman, 
who was taking a pinch of snuff. 

“ Gudin! Ah, 1 see!” said the amateur, who by this time 
had discovered the signature of the artist. “I have heard 
that name in America, but this is the first picture of his that 
I have seen. Young he may be—you said so, I think, sir? — 
but whoever painted that ship and those waves is a master. 
I am less pleased with the sailors. However, no one can 
excel in everything,” and the sailor continued to study, the 
canvas. 

“What do you think of that brig in the background?” 
asked the old gentleman. 

“ Excuse me, sir; it is not a brig, it is a corvette run- 


EOSE-DE-KOEL. 


67 


ning before the wind. In such a gale as that, though, I was 
in the habit of shouting, ‘Down with the sails!’ ” 

And the sailor shouted these words at the top of his voice. 

Everybody turned. Some few amateurs immediately re- 
sumed their studies of the pict?ures, but the greater number 
of the people present gathered around the sailor, in the hope 
that he would afford them more amusement. 

The unknown had certainly not spoken to deaf ears. 

The old gentleman who had spoken before now said 
quickly: 

“It strikes me, sir, that you have commanded a ship.” 

“ I have had that honor.” 

“A ship, a brig, or a corvette?” 

“A corvette, sir.” 

Then, as if he did not care to continue the conversation, 
the sailor deserted Gudin’s waves, brig, and corvette to 
examine a picture by Boucher. 

But the old gentleman, who probably was curious to know 
what so discriminating a critic would think of Madame du 
Barry’s painter, did not allow himself to be left behind. As 
a star draws its satellites, so did all the sailor’s auditors 
accompany him. 

“Although there is no signature,” said our sailor, as he 
looked at the work of Carle Vanloo’s successor, “ there is no 
need of asking who the artist was. Boucher painted this 
‘Toilet of Venus,’ and the artist has given to his Venus 
the features of the wretched courtesan who at that time 
dishonored the French monarchy. A bad picture! A bad 
artist! I can’t endure Boucher; and you, gentlemen, what 
say you?” 

Without waiting to hear the reply of those whom he 
addressed, he went on in a loud voice: 

“ He is an admirable colorist, to be sure, but his style is as 
pretentious and affected as the persons of his time. Villain- 
ous time it was, too — a wretched imitation of the manners 
of the Renaissance. But there is no flesh here like Titian’s 
nor like Rubens’.” 

Then turning toward the crowd, he said: 

“And this, gentlemen, is precisely why I like Chardin. 
He is strong because he is simple amid all the deadly affecta- 
tion of this century. Ah, gentlemen! simplicity, after all, is 
the best thing.” 

No one was inclined to dispute his words; and seeing this, 
the old gentleman, who had listened with interest to the 
sailorj now said : 


68 


EOSE-DE-KOEL. 



You are right, sir; you are perfectly right.” 

This amateur began to enjoy the comments of the sailor, 
which were a little rough, perhaps, but just, as well as philo- 
sophical. 

“If I live long enough to realize my dream,” said the sea- 
captain in a melahuholy tone, “ I. shall die the happiest of 
men. for I shall have put my name to a great work.” 

“ Would it be indiscreet, sir,” asked the old gentleman, 
“ if I were to ask what this dream might be?” 

“Not in the least, sir— not in the least. I wish to found 
a free school of design, where simplicity in art will be the 
ruling principle.” 

“ A grand idea, sir!” 

“ Is it not?” 

“ Grand and philanthropic! Do you live in Paris, sir?” 

“No; but 1 hope to do so ere long. I begin to be tired of 
going round the world.” 

“Have you been around the world, then?” exclaimed the 
old gentleman, wonderingly. 

“ Six times, sir,” answered the sea-captain. 

The amateur drew back a few steps. 

“But that is worse than Monsieur de la Perouse!” he 
said. 

“Monsieur de la Perouse has been only twice,” said the 
sailor, quietly. 

“I am undoubtedly speaking to an illustrious navigator?” 
said the amateur.” 

“Notatall!” ■ 

May I ask your name, sir?” 

“ My name is Lazare-Pierre Berthaut, surnamed Monte- 
Hauban.” 

“Are you a descendant of the famous Berthaut de Mon- 
tauban, Charlemagne’s nephew?” 

“ Renaud de Montauban, you mean?” 

“Ah, you are right! Renaud, I should have said.” 

“Renaud and Berthaut are easily confounded. I do not 
think that I can claim tliat honor. In our name there is an 
h that Renaud de Montauban has not in his.” 

The amateur, who could not understand where in his name 
Captain Monte-Hauban could put an h, made an unsuccess- 
ful attempt at placing it before the m. 

But after many vain efforts he gave it up, thinking he had 
misunderstood what the sailor had said. Then, taking a card 
from his pocket, he gave it to the sailor, saying: 

“Captain^ I am always at home on Mondays, Wednesdays, 


ROSE-DE-NOEL. 


69 


and Fridays, from three to five o’clock. I dine at five, and 
you will do me the honor of sharing my modest repast some- 
times? You will find that my wife delights in sea-stories. 
You will make both her and myself very happy by narrating 
your adventures.’’ 

With the greatest pleasure,” said the captain, putting the 
card in his pocket. “Adventures, in my opinion, are often 
more enjoyable in the telling than in the acting.” 

“I dare say, sir — I dare say,” and the amateur took his 
leave with a bow and a smile. 

The sailor made a conquest of several other amateurs, 
whom he astonished by the accuracy of his judgment and 
by his passionate enthusiasm for simplicity in art. 

At the end of two hours every one listened with that silent 
attention peculiar to pupils when they find themselves in the 
presence of a celebrated professor. 

Just as the servant opened the door to signify that the 
hour fof departure had arrived, the captain turned a picture, 
that stood against the wall, which by its position seemed to 
indicate that it was not to be sold with the others. 

This picture was only a sketch of the engagement of the 
“ Belle-Therese ” and the “ Calypso,” a sketch which Petrus, 
after an animated description by his father, had amused him- 
self one day in painting. Hardly had he seen this picture, 
than Captain Pierre Bertbaut uttered such enthusiastic ex- 
clamations, that those persons who were *just going away 
stood still to know what had called them forth. 

“Can it be possible.^” cried the captain. 

In spite of the servant who stood holding the door open, 
the crowd gathered around the captain once more with a 
hundred questions. 

“Yes, gentlemen,” exclaimed the captain, drying his eyes. 
“Excuse my emotion, but when I saw this most faithful 
representation of the first combat in which I ever took a part, 
tears came to my eves.” 

“Tell us about ft, captain!” cried the eager crowed. 

“There is but one man,” continued the captain, “who 
could depict with such fidelity the engagement between the 
‘ Calypso’ and the ‘ Belle-Therese,’ and this man never held 
a brush in his hand.” 

“ And who was this man?” cried his auditors, quite excited 
by this dramatic episode. 

“ The captain of the ^Belle-Therese.’” 

“And this captain was yourself?” asked some one, 


70 


EOSE-DE-HOEL. 


it was not I,” answered Monte-Hauban^ witb a lofty 
gesture — ‘‘no, it was my most faithful friend, Captain Her- 
bel. I know not what became of him when we were separ* 
ated at Kochefort after having made a vain attempt to save 
the Emperor — I should say Bonaparte/’ 

“ Say the Emperor— say the Emperor!” cried some among 
the crowd who were bolder than the others. 

“Yes, the Emperor,” answered the captain, “for surely 
we may use the title — he bore it and glorified it. Pardon 
this thoughtless enthusiasm in one of his old servants.” 

“Yes, of course; but tell us about Captain Herbel!” 

“ God only knows where he is now, poor fellow!” continued 
the captain, raising his eyes and arms to heaven. 

The servant, who was greatly annoyed by this scene, which 
prevented the visitors from leaving, now said: 

“I don’t know where Captain Herbel is to-day, but I do 
know that he was here a week since.” 

“Captain Herbel?” shouted the sailor, at the top of his 
voice. 

“ Yes, sir,” answered the servant. 

“And you do not know where he is now?” 

“I mean, sir, that I can’t tell precisely; he ought to be at 
Saint-Malo.” 

“I will go there at once,” cried the captain, rushing to the 
door followed by the little crowd. Then, sto2^ping. suddenly, 
the sailor said to the servant: 

“You can’t be mistaken? You have seen the captain?” 

“Yes, sir, many times; in this very room.” 

“In this room?” 

“You are sure?” 

“ I am sure, sir, for it is I who have always let him in.” 

“ But why should my old friend visit a painter’s studio?” 

“Because the painter is his son,” answered the servant.” 

“ AVhat is that you say?” cried the captain, starting forward. 
“Dojou mean that the celebrated artist Petrus is the son of 
the illustrious Captain Herbel?” 

“ Yes, sir, his own son, and the nephew of General de 
Courtenay.” 

“ Good! I am a sailor, though, and know little of the gen- 
erals, especially when they become generals in Conde’s army.” 

Then recollecting himself, 

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said; “perhaps my rough 
speech offends you, but I have no intention of doing so,T as- 
sure you.” 

“ No, captain, we are not offended,” cried several voices. 


ROSE-BE KOEL. 71 

Blit,” said the captain, whose face was radiant, if this 
young Petrus is the son of my friend Herbel, then- ” 

‘‘Then what, sir?’’ asked the servant. 

“Then send this young man to me,” said the captain, im- 
peratively. 

“ Excuse me, sir; my master sees no one.” 

The captain was strangely disturbed by this reply; the 
muscles of his face quivered with a strange resemblance to 
the movement of the waves. 

“ But do you consider me no one?” cried the captain, ad- 
vancing fiercely upon the poor wretch, as if he meant to take 
him by the collar. 

The servant remembered the entrance of Captain Herbel 
into his son’s apartment, and having no reason to believe 
that Captain Monte-Hauban was more amiable than his fel- 
low officer, he begged the visitors to depart, that the stranger 
might enjoy the tete-a-tete with the young artist, whom he 
was so desirous to see. 

The visitors vacated the studio with slow, reluctant feet. 

They had hoped to witness the joyous meeting between the 
officer and the son of his beloved friend. 

When the servant was alone with the stranger, he asked 
whom he should announce. 

“One of the heroes of the ‘ Belle-Th6r^se/ ” said the cap* 
tain, straightening himself up. 

The servant went to Petrus. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

BOARDING THE VESSEL. 

When alone. Captain Berthaut, called Monte-Hauban, 
seated himself on a sofa, passed his hand through his hair, 
and brushed out his whiskers, then, crossing one leg over the 
other, he sat buried in thought until Petrus raised the por- 
tiere and stood motionless on the threshold. 

He saw the captain in the position we have described. 
The stranger did not apparently notice the entrance of the 
young man, for he sat with his head on his hand in an atti- 
tude of complete absorption. 

Petrus Avatched him a moment, and then coughed to attract 
attention. 

The captain started, and looking up quickly, like a man 
aroused from sleep. 

“ You wish to speak to me, sir?” asked Petrus, 


72 ROSE-DE-NOEL. 

It is his father’s very voice,” cried the captain. 

‘^ You have known my father then?” said Petrus, hurrying 
toward the sailor^ who rose to meet him. 

‘‘His step too — his father’s step!” the captain again ex- 
claimed. “ Did you ask me if I knew him?” Then, crossing 
his arms, “ Look at me!” he exclaimed. 

Petrus in some astonishment replied: 

“ I do see you, sir.” 

“He is, upon my word, an accurate portrait of what his 
father was at the same age,” continued the sailor, tenderly, 
— or rather, to use a common expx'ession which renders our 
meaning more clear, he devoured him with his eyes. “You 
resemble your father as two drops of water resemble each 
other. Embrace me, my boy!” 

“But to whom have I the honor of speaking?” asked 
Petrus, more and more astonished at the air, manner, and the 
familiarity of this unknown, 

“ And you ask who I am, Petrus?” continued the captain, 
extending his arms. “ You look at me and do not know me! 
It is true,” he added, in a melancholy voice, “ that the last 
time I saw you you were hot taller than that.” 

And the captain held his hand at a level that denoted a 
child of five or six. 

“I must admit, sir,” answered Petrus, more than confused, 
“ that in spite of these hints I cannot recall you. Ho — I do 
not remember you.” 

“I forgive you,” said the sailor, “and yet,” he continued, 
with a suggestion of sadness in the voice, “I would have 
preferred that you should have recognized me. A second 
father ought not to be so easily forgotten.” 

“ How do you mean?” asked P6trus. 

“I mean, my boy, that my hard life and the tropics must 
have changed me greatly, or you must have known your god- 
father.” 

“ Can it be that you are my father’s friend Berthaut, sur- 
named Monte-Hauban, and from whom he was separated at 
Kochefort, and who has never been seen since?” 

“lam the man! Now come and embrace me, Pierre, for 
Pierre is your name, as no one should know better than my- 
self, since I gave you my own.” 

This was quite true, though the name of Pierre had grown 
into Petrus, 

Most gladly will Lembrace you, godfather,” cried Petrus, 
gayly. 

And the old captain opening his arms, the young man 


ROSE-DK-IsrOEL 


73 


leaped into them with boyish enthusiasm. Tlie captain 
nearly stifled him, and then pushed him away a little, but 
without releasing his grasp. 

You are your father all over!” he said, ^^and he was just 
your age when I first knew him; but 1 must confess, in spite 
of my partiality, that he was not as handsome as you are. 
There is a good deal of your mother about you, and upon my 
word, the sight of you makes me feel twenty-five years 
younger. Sit down — that I may see you at my ease.” 

Then drying his eyes with the back of his hand, he pulled 
Petrus down on the sofa by ' ‘ 

You can spare me a few 
The rest of the day, sir. 

Sir, indeed! Do you call me ^sir’? Ah! to be sure this is 
the capital. If you were a peasant, you would call me ‘ God- 
father Berthaut* without any ceremony.” 

The captain sighed profoundly. 

‘^Ah!” he said, ^‘if my old friend, your father, could 
know that you call me ^sirM” 

‘‘Promise me never to tell him that I did so, and I will 
agree always to call you Godfather Berthaut.” 

“ All right, then! But! can’t say ‘you ’ tp you, I must ad- 
dress you as ‘ thou.’ A boy like yourself can’t surely expect 
to be treated with so much ceremony.” 

“ But I neither expect nor desire it,” said Petrus, laugh- 
ing; “ you may address me as you please.” 

“Then I shall call you simply, godson, otherwise I should 
not know how to say what remains to be said ” 

“ Go on, godfather.” 

Berthaut looked at the young man intently. 

“The truth is, my boy, you are in trouble.” 

Petrus started, and blushed deeply. 

“Of course you are, otherwise your furniture would not 
be sold.” 

“ But I assure you, sir, that I am not forced to sell it.” 

Berthaut shook" his head. 

“ Why do you do that?” asked Petrus. 

“Godson, listen to me. You need not hope to convince 
me, that after having made a collection like this — after 
getting together at your age all this exquisite Japanese 
porcelain — this Holland delf — this Sevres and Saxony ware 
— for I know what hric-a-hrac is — that you get rid of it again 
voluntarily or recklessly.” 

“I do not intend to say, captain,” answered Petrus, 
trying to avoid the word godfather, which struck him as 


IS side. 

minutes, I hope, my boy?” 
if you choose.” 


74 


ROSE-DE-KOEL. 


ridiculous~^^‘ I do not intend to say, that I sell these things 
voluntarily or recklessly, but nevertheless I am not com- 
pelled to sell them.” 

Oh! I understand what yon mean. You intend to say 
that there is no judgment taken out against you. Godson 
Petrus is an honest man, and he prefers to pay his cred- 
itors rather than enrich the sheriff; but nevertheless I re- 
peat, you are in trouble,” 

Well, then,” answered Petrus, since you are so cer- 
tain, I may as well admit that you are not "so far wrong.” 

‘‘Then it is most fortunate that I happened in here to- 
day. It was Notre Dame de Bon Seco%irs who brought me.” 

“ I do not understand you, sir,’” said Petrus. 

“ Sir! Is there any sir in the roomP’ cried the captain, ris- 
ing and looking around the room. ^ 

“ Never mind, godfather; sit down, it was only a lapsus 
linguceJ’ 

“ Very good, but I wish you would not speak Arabic to me, 
as it is the only language I do not understand. Talk 
French, my boy — English, Spanish — anything you please, 
but none of your lapsus lingus for me, for I * don’t 
know what you mean.” 

“ Well, sit down again, godfather.” 

“On one condition.” 

“ And what is that?” 

“That you will listen to me.” 

“I promise to do so.” 

And Petrus, who was really interested in the oddity be- 
fore him, opened his ears wide. 

“ Your good father,” said the captaiuy “ has no money. 
I am sure of that, and not in the least astonished either. 
When I last saw him, he was getting rid of every sou he 
had by his devotion to the Emperor, and money vanishes 
in that way, quicker than at roulette. He certainly sacri- 
ficed five sixths of his fortune in that way. And the last 
sixth ” 

“Was absorbed in the expenses of my education, or very 
nearly so.” 

“ And you, not wishing to ruin your poor father, and yet 
desiring to live like a gentleman, have incurred debts? That 
is it — am I not right?” 

“Alas! I ” 

“ And add to this some love affair — the wish to shine in 
the eyes of some fair woman — to ride in the Bois on a gallant 


ROSE-DE-NOEL. 75 

steed, that she might see you — to go to a hall in a fine car- 
riage to meet her. I know all about it.” 

“Ah, godfather! you are very wonderful for a sailor.” 

“ Sailors have hearts, my boy, like other men.” And the 
captain quoted a verse from Chenier. 

“ What, godfather! you know Chenier’s verses?” 

“ And why not? In my youth I came to Paris, I wanted 
to see Talma. People said to me, ‘ You are very fortunate — he 
is playing in 0h6niePs tragedy of “ Charles ik.” ’ I said to 
myself, ‘ I will see this play.’ During the representation, 
there was a row in the theater; the police came in and arrested 
a lot of men, myself among the others, and I remained 
in the guard-house until the next morning. Then I 
was told that a mistake had been made, and was released. I 
left Paris the same day, and did not return for thirty years. 
When I came I asked where Talma was? ‘ Dead.’ ^ Monsieur 
Chenier?’ ‘Dead.’ I asked about the play ol ‘ Charles IX.’ 

‘ Forbidden by the censor.’ ‘ Ah!’ I said, ‘ I am sorry, for I 
I should like to have seen the end of a play of which I saw only 
the first act.’ ‘ You can read it, ’ some one remarked. ‘ I asked 
how, and was told to buy it. I went to a book-store, and asked 
for the works of Monsieur Chenier. I took the book away, 
examined it closely, read every word, but not a syllable of 
the tragedy did I find— nothing but poetry. I read it so much 
that I learned it by heart, and thus was enabled to make my 
quotation. Nevertheless, I was cheated; I had purchased 
Ch6nier to read ‘ Charles IX.,’ and ‘ Charles IX.’ was not by 
Chenier, after all! Oh, what filibusters booksellers are!” 

“ Poor godfather!” said Petrus, laughing. “ I don’t think 
the bookseller was to blame.” 

“ And why not, pray?” 

“ It was yours ” 

“ Mine! Explain yourself, if you please.” 

“ ‘ Charles IX.’ was written by Marie-Joseph Ch^nieri 
and the book you purchased was by Andre Chenier, the poet.” 

“Ah! I see!” said the captain. Then, after a few moments 
of profound reflection, he broke out again: “But all the 
same, booksellers are a filibustering institution.” 

Petrus, seeing that his godfather’s opinions were not easily 
shaken, and having no motive for defending booksellers, 
dropped the subject, and waited for the captain to broach 
something more interesting. 

“ We were saying,” resumed the sailor, “ that there were 
debts.” 

“ Yes, precisely,” answered Petrus. 


iiOSE-I)E-KOEL. 


7G 


CHAPTER XIV. 

A GODFATHER FROM AMERFCA. 

There was a long silence, during which Pierre Berthaut 
studied the face of his young companion. 

‘‘What is the amount of your debts?^’ he asked, suddenly; 
“ tell me about what it is.’’ 

“About what it is!” .repeated Petrus, smiling. 

“ Yes. For debts, my lad, are like faults, one never knows 
precisely their extent.” 

“I know mine, however,” said Petrus. 

“You do?” , 

- “Most certainly.” 

That proves that you have some method in your busi- 
ness, godson. What is the figure?” and Berthaut leaned 
back in his chair, half shut his eyes, and rolled his thumbs 
around each other. 

“My debts amount to thirty-three thousand francs.” 

“ To thirty-three thousand francs!” shouted the captain. 

“Ah!” said Petrus, who thought the old captain extremely 
original — “ ah! you think the sum enormous.” 

“Enormous! I only wonder, my boy, that you have not 
died of hunger. Thirty-three thousand francs! At your age 
I should have spent ten times the sum.” 

“ Nevertheless, my dear godfather, I am heartily ashamed 
of myself.” 

“Why need you be when you have a hundred thousand 
francs at the end of your brush? I have seen your pictures, 
and I call them great. You must know that I know a great 
deal about art. Tes,” continued the sailor, “your pictures 
are wonderful; and when a man paints like that, he can 
afford to live at the rate of thirty- three thousand francs’ 
worth of debts per annum. Your talent represents a million 
as capital; and thirty-three thousand francs is a very fair 
interest on that sum.” 

“Ah! godfatlier,” said Petrus, “ your wit and cleverness 
are beyond question. 

“ Pshaw,” muttered Berthaut, “ let us talk of your debts, 
for I have a proposal to make.” 

“ In regard to my debts?” 

“ In regard to your debts.” 


ROSE-DE-XOEL 


n 

Go on, sir, for yon are so singular a person that I am 
surprised "at nothing.” 

This, then, is my proposition: I ju'opose to become your 
sole creditor.” 

^‘IIow do you mean?” 

“You owe thirty-three thousand francs, and you propose 
to pay this money, I presume, by the sale of your furniture, 
your pictures, and tric-a-hraeV’ 

‘•'Alas!” said P6trus, “your words are as true as Holy 
Writ.” 

“ Well, then, I will pay this money, and you shall keep the 
hric-a-hracy the pictures, and the furniturel” 

Petrus looked at the sailor in astonishment. 

“ I really do not understand you, sir,” he said. 

“Have I offended you? Excuse me, I thought I was 
speaking to the son of my old friend Herbel.” 

“Ah! dear godfather, excuse me!” cried Petrus, eagerly; 
“you are indeed speaking to the son of your old friend; and 
it is he who answers and says it is one thing to borrow thirty- 
three thousand francs, even from one’s godfather, and an- 
other to return them.” 

“Return them! Ah! that is an easy matter. You shall 
paint me a picture from this sketch.” 

And he showed 'Petrus the “ Belle-Th6rese and the 
Calypso,” which he had taken from the wall. 

“ I want a picture thirty-three feet long and sixteen and 
a half in height,” the sailor answered. “ You will put 
me on the bridge, by your father.” 

“ But where would you put a picture of that size?” 

“In my salon, of course.” 

“You would never find a house with a salon thirty-three 
feet long.” 

“I will build one, then.” 

Are you a millionaire, godfather?” 

“If I were a mere millionaire,” said Pierre Berthaut, in a 
disdainful tone, “I should invest in Three-per-Cents, and 
manage to live as best I could.” 

“Oh, oh!” cried Petrus. 

“My dear boy,” continued the captain, “let me tell you 
my story in a very few words.” 

“ Pray go on, godfather.” 

“When your father and I separated at Rochefort, I said to 
myself, ^ Pierre Berthaut, there is nothing more to be done 
in France with honest privateering — we will turn our atten- 
tion to trade.’ Consequently, I began to sell ebony.” 


7^^ EOSE-T)E-XOEL. 

‘‘Tliafc phrase might mean negroes.” 

Indeed?” asked the captain, 
think so,” Petrus replied. 

At all events, I lived in this way for three or four years, 
and, moreover, it brought me into connection with South 
America; so that, when the jnsurrection broke out there, I, 
feeling little confidence in Spain — a nation that was worn 
out and decrepit — I placed myself at the service of Bolivar; 
1 recognized him as the coming man.” > 

“Then, godfather, you are one of the liberators of Ven- 
ezuela and New Grenada — ohe of the founders of Columbia?” 

“That is my proudest boast, godson! The abolition of 
slavery, however, being now pronounaed, it was necessary 
that I should find some other way of making money. I had 
noticed, in the vicinity of Quito, a certain locality which, to 
my mind, suggested gold. I examined the place very closely, 
discovered the mine, and asked the concession. In virtue of 
services rendered by me to the Republic, the concession was 
granted. 

“ In four years I had realized four millions; and I gave up 
my claim, in consideration of five hundred thousand francs 
per annum. I have now returned to France, where I propose 
to live comfortably on my four rnillionsand my revenues from 
the mine. Do you think well of this project, godson?” 

“ Most certainly I do.” 

“Now I have no children, no relations, not even distant 
cousins whom I never saw; I shall never marry. What, then, 
shall I do with my fortune, unless you, to whom it belongs by 
right ” 

“Captain!” 

“There it is again! If you, to whom it belongs by right, 
begin by refusing the thirty-three thousand francs that I offer 
you?” 

“I hope you understand my reluctance, dear godfather?” 

“No; I do not understand it in the least. I am alone in 
the world, and immensely rich. I am your godfather. I offer 
you the merest trifle and you refuse. But do you realize, my 
boy, that in doing this you insult me?” 

“That is not my intention.” 

“ Whether it is or is not, you have none the less,” the 
captain said, “' wounded me to the heart!” 

“Forgive me!” said Petrus, hastily; “but I am so taken by 
surprise, that I probably have not expressed the gratitude I 
most certainly feel; and I offer you the humblest apologies.” 

“You accept, then?” 


79 


ROSE-DE-NOEL. 

I did not say that.” 

If you refuse, do you know what I will do?” 

‘‘No.” 

“ I will tell you,” 

Petrus waited. The captain drew out a fat pocket-book, 
and opened it. 

“ I shall take thirty-three bank-notes — 1 have two hundred 
here, of a thousand francs each— I will roll them into a ball, 
and throw them into the street!” 

“ And why?” ' 

“To prove to you that I look upon them as mere rubbish.” 

And the captain began to roll up the bills, and then rose 
to go to the window. 

Petrus stopped him. 

“ What nonsense this is!” he said. 

“Thirty-three thousand francs or destruction!” said the 
captain. “Zounds! boy; do as I say, or standout of my 
way.” 

“ Listen to me!” cried Petrus; “ listen in your turn, or I 
will swear like a corsair; I will prove to you that if I am not 
a sailor myself, I am the son of one!” 

“ He is coming to his senses!” muttered the captain. “I 
will hear what he has to say.” 

“ Yes, listen; lam simply inconvenienced just now, because 
I have run into debt, and spent money foolishly.” 

“ A lad must sow his wild oats!” 

“ But this would not have been the case had I not been at 
the same time frightfully indolent.” 

“One can’t be always at work.” 

“But I mean to work now.” 

“ And how about your love affairs?” 

Petrus colored, 

“It is quite possible for love and work to go in harness to- 
gether,” he said, “and I am determined to work like a dog 
now.” 

“Do so, if you choose, but in the meantime your creditors 
will be compelled to wait; they must be kept quiet, my lad. 
I do not wish to force you to accept anything from me, but 
I wdsli you would take this pocket-book, and help yourself.” 

“ Ah! now you are becoming reasonable, and there is some 
hope of our understanding each other.” 

Petrus took ten thousand francs from the pocket-book, and 
restored it to its owner, who watched him with a dissatisfied 
expression. 

“ Ten thousand francs!” he muttered; the nearest money- 


80 


. KOSE-DE-XOEL* 


lender would have let you have that sum at six per cent. By 
the way, why do you not say anything about interest?’* 

Simply, dear godfather, because I feared to offend you.” 

‘‘Not in the least! I intend to demand interest.” 

“ Very good.” 

“ 1 came to Paris with the intention of buying a house, 
and furnishing it as soon as possible; but I suppose I can’t 
get a house under a week?” 

“I should think not.” 

“ Nor furnish it under another?” 

“ I should call it three.” 

“I don’t wish to contradict you; you may call it three, 
then.” 

“ You had better make it a little more,” said Petrus. 

“ I see I must withdraw my proposal.” 

“ What proposal?” 

“The one I was about to make.” 

“ And why do yon withdraw it?” 

“ Because I see that with a character like yours, it would 
be impossible for us to live together in peace.” 

“ Do you wish to live with me, then?” asked Petrus. 

“I arrived yesterday at the Hotel de Havre, and I deter- 
mined to write to you at once, and say: ‘ Petrus, my godson, 
have you a chamber, a closet, an attic, where a h{|mmock can 
be slung, where poor Captain Monte- Hauban can find a shel- 
ter?” 

“Is it possible?” cried Petrus, delighted to have it in his 
power to do something for a man who had put at his disposal 
a fortune with so much simplicity. 

“Yes,” said the captain; “ but you understand if this is 
in any way disagreeable to you, if it inconveniences you in 
the slightest degree, you have only to say so.” 

“ But how can you think that?” 

“I only want a ‘yes’ or a ‘ no,’ a frank reply.” 

“ Then I say to you most frankly, dear godfather, that 
nothing would be more agreeable to me than the proposition 
you have just made, only -” 

“ Only what?” 

“ Only those days when I have models, when I have sitters.” 

“Ah! to be sure, ‘Liberty! Libertas!”’ 

“You can talk Arabic, too’, it seems?*^ 

“If I do, it is without knowing it,” answered the sailor, 
innocently. 

“ Your erudition appalls me at times, dear godfather. Let 
us return to what we were saying.” 


TvOBE-BE-isOEL. 


81 


Yes, to the expression of my wishes. 1 am not accus- 
tomed to solitude; I have always had about me a dozen or so 
of good fellows, and I don’t care to rust out in that dismal 
Hotel de Havre. I love society, and particularly the society 
of the young. You ought to gather about you artists and 
savants; I adore savants and artists — the first because I do 
not understand them, the second because I do. You see, 
luy hoy, a sailor who is not a fool picks up a little of every- 
thing. He has studied astronomy with the Great Bear and 
the Polar Star, music with the wind that whistles through 
the ropes, painting with the setting sun. TVe will discuss as- 
tronomy, music, and painting; and you will see that in such 
matters I am not far behind those who make it their business, 
and with the exception of a too free use of nautical terms, 
you will have no reason to be ashamed of me. Then, too, it 
will be a very easy matter for us to decide on some signal that 
you shall fly at the masthead when you consider that my 
tongue'Tuns too fast; what do you say, then?” 

‘‘ Simply that I am delighted with the idea.” 

‘“Then I am the happiest man in the world; but you know 
when you wish to be alone with your models and your great 
ladies, I shall go ashore.” 

^‘Agreed!” 

Very good!” The captain took out his watch. Zounds! 
It is half past six!” he exclaimed. Where do you usually 
dine, my boy?” 

‘‘Anywhere, and nowhere in particular.” 

“ You are very wise. Can one dine well at the Palais 
Eoyal?” 

“ Yes, as one dines at a restaurant.” 

“ Vefour, Very, the Freres-Proven 9 aux; do they still exist?” 

“ More than ever.” 

“ Let us dine at one of these?’” 

“You invitO'me to dinner, then?” 

“Yes, to-day; and to-morrow you shall invite me, Master 
Susceptibility, and then we will be quits.” 

“ Permit me to change my coat, then.” 

“ Change whatever you please, my boy.” 

Petrus went toward his chamber. 

“By the way ” 

Petrus looked around. 

“ You must give me the address of your tailor; I must be 
dressed in the fashion of the day.” 

Then noticing through the open door the young man’s hat 
on table^ he said; 


82 


KOSE-I'E-KOEL. 


Ah! the Bolivar hats are no longer worn, then?’’ 

^‘No; Murillo has gained the day.” 

I shall always wear mine, though, in memory of the great 
man to whom I owe my fortune.” 

“ And of a good heart and a great mind,” my dear god- 
father. 

You are laughing at my enthusiasm.^” 

Not in the least.” 

‘‘ Never mind! Where do you propose to lodge me?” 

‘‘Just below, if you say so; I have a delightful bachelor’s 
apartment which will, I think, suit you perfectly.” 

“I don’t want an apartment; give it to some one else. 

I simply require one room, a cot-bed, some books, four chairs, 
and a.map of the world. 1 ask nothing more.” 

“ Let me assure you that there is no one else to whom I wish 
to give the apartment, and you deprive me of nothing when 
you take it, as its only use is to accommodate Jean Robert on 
the days that his new plays are performed.” 

“Ah! Jean Robert, the fashionable play wright of the day; 
yes, I know him.” 

“ You know him?” 

“I have seen his plays translated into Spanish, at Rio 
Janeiro. Let me tell you, my boy, though I look like a 
rough old sea-lion, that I know many things and many 
people. Under my sailor swagger I hide some" little knowl- 
edge of the world. Then the apartment over yours?” 

“ Is yours.” 

“And it will not inconvenience you?” 

“ Not in the least.” 

“ I will occupy it then.” 

“ And when will you take possession?” 

“ To-morrow — to-night.” 

“Will you not sleep here to-night?’' 

“Of course I will, if it does not put you to any trouble.” - 

“Bravo, godfather!” said Petrus, as he rang the bell. 

“What do you intend to do?” 

“I wish to tell my servant to prepare the rooms.” 

The servant entered, and Petrus gave him the necessary 
orders. 

“And -where shall Jean go for your trunks?” asked 
Petrus. 

“I will see to them myself,” and then, in a lower voice, the 
Bailor said : 

“I must make my adieux to the hostess, you know,” and 
he looked at Petrus significantly. 


ROSE-DE-N'OEL. 


83 


Godfather,” said the young man, ^^you know that you 
can receive whomsoever you choose here; this house is not a 
cloister.” 

“Thanks!” 

Then, in a lower voice, Petrus replied: 

“It seems to me that you have not altogether lost your 
time in Paris.” 

“I had not found you then, you know,” answered the 
captain, “and it was necessary that I should have some one 
to speak to.” 

The servant appeared again. 

“The rooms are all ready,” he said; “there are only 
sheets to be put on the bed.” 

“In that case, captain,” said P6trus, “had you not better 
look in as you pass the door.” 

“ I should like to do so, though, as I told you before, we 
sailors are by no means fastidious.” 

Petrus led the way and, opening the door of the entresol, 
he showed his godfather into an apartment that was simply 
delicious, but more fitted for a petite maUresse than for a 
student or a poet. 

The captain stared in an ecstasy of admiration before the 
thousand curiosities scattered about. 

“Upon my life!” he exclaimed, “ this is a princely room 
that you offer me.” 

“That is surely right,” answered P6trus; “should not a 
nabob like yourself be lodged in a princely apartment!” 

The next ten minutes were passed by the captain in ad- 
miration, at the end of which time the servant came to say 
that the carriage was at the door. 

On reaching the portePs lodge, the captain stopped. 

“ Come here, Lascar!” he shouted. 

“ Your servant, sir,” said the porter. 

“Have the goodness to tear down the placards on the wall 
which announce the sale for Sunday, and tell the amateurs 
when they come to-morroW’ ” 

“Well, sir.” 

“That my godson will keep his belongings.” 

And, jumping into the coupe that cracked under his weight, 
he cried: 

“To the Freres- Proven^aux!” 

Petrus entered after his godfather, and the carriage drove 
off rapidly. 

“ By the carcass of the ^ Calypso ’ which we riddled — your 


84 


rose-i)e-:n’^oel. 


father and I— you have a nice animal here, one which it would 
be a pity to sell!” 


CHAPTER XV. 

IN W'HICH THE CAPTAIN PLATS A GEE AT PART. 

The godfather and godson were installed in one of the 
private rooms in the Freres-Proven9aux, and at the request 
of the sailor, who declared that he knew nothing about it, 
Petrus ordered the dinner. 

^^Only,” said the captain, wank the best in the house. 
You are familiar with dainty suppers, my boy. The most 
generous wines, and the dearest dishes. I have heard a good 
deal about a wine from Syracuse that could formerly be found 
here. Find out, Petrus, if this wine is still in existence. I 
am tired of Madeira. I have drunk it for five years, and have 
got to loathe it.” 

Petrus ordered the Syracuse wine. We have not the space 
to give the memi of the dinner ordered by Petrus, with the 
constant interference of his godfather. 

It was a dinner fit for a nabob, and the captain admitted 
at dessert that he had not dined ill. 

Petrus was astonished, for never in his life, not even at the 
GeneraFs house, had he feasted so luxuriously. 

This, however, was not the only cause for amazement that 
the captain gave Petrus. 

He saw him throw a piaster to the lad who opened the door 
when they entered the Freres-Proven^aux, and, as they passed 
the Theatre Franqais, he saw him hire a box, and when he 
told the captain that the spectacle was poor, the old sailor 
said: 

‘‘Never mind; we need not use it unless we choose, but I 
like to make sure of a comfortable spot to enjoy a nap after 
dinner.” 

And when they took their seats at the table, he saw his 
godfather give a louis to the waiter, and tell him to be sure 
that the claret was warm, and the champagne iced. 

In fact, from the moment that the sailor had first spoken 
to Petrus, the latter had received a series of surprises. 

The captain began to assume, in the eyes of the young 
artist, the proportions of the god Pluto. * Gold came from 
his mouth, eyes, and hands, like the rays of the sun. 


'R0SE-DE-2s"0EL; 85 

It seemed as if he had only to shake himself a little, and 
he would rain gold. 

He was, indeed, the true classic nabob. 

Petrus, when dinner came to an end, with his brain a little 
heated by the yarious wines which, at the entreaties of his 
godfather he had drunk, although he rarely touched anything 
but water — Petrus, as we were saying, fancied that he had 
been dreaming, and he was obliged to ask his godfather sev- 
eral questions in order to assure himself that all the events 
which had taken place since five o’clock were not the freaks 
in a fairy pantomime at the Porte-Saint-Martin Theater. 

Carried away, then, by his radiant visions, P6trus relapsed 
into a reverie, which his godfather took care not to interrupt, 
though he watched him out of the corners of his eyes. 

The dark presentiments which had weighed down the young 
artist lifted like heavy clouds. The life 'of luxury, which 
seemed to him an essential accompaniment of his love, did 
not now look so utterly unattainable. Why should he not 
now indulge in hope? Had he not the quadruple crown of 
yodth, talent, riches, and love? 

It was incredible that he, who was so low that very morn- , 
ing, could be now lifted to such a height. 

^‘But,” some of my readers exclaim, those who are most 
delicate and most susceptible,- does Petrus intend to become 
dependent on the caprices of a stranger? Does he intend to 
receive alms from a hand that is not his father’s? It is not 
this that you led us to expect from your hero.” 

Ah! Puritans, I did not intend you to expect a heart 
and temperament of forty in a young man of twenty-six. I 
presented you to a man of genius, with ardent passions. 

I told you that he resembled Vandyke the younger! Do you 
remember Vandyke’s love affairs in Genoa? and his search 
for the philosopher’s stone in London?” 

Before accepting the assistance of this sailor, Petrus had 
made the same objections as ourselves, but he said that this 
man was not a stranger, that he was the friend of his father, 
and that he had moreover assumed the duties of godfather, 
and on the day of his baptism had promised to watch over 
his happiness in this world and the next. The assistance 
offered by the captain was also momentary. Petrus accepted 
it on the condition that he might return it. 

As we have before said, his pictures had gained greatly in 
value by his recent idleness. Petrus could make, by working/ 
reasonably, his fifty thousand francs per annum; and doing 
this, he would soon be able to repay the ten thousand francs 


86 


ROSE-DE-HOEL. 


lent him by his godfather, and at the same time give his 
creditors the twenty or twenty-five thousand francs he owed 
them. 

Let us look at it, also, in another way. Had this unex- 
pected godfather, whose existence was nearly forgotten, died 
in Calcutta, Valparaiso, Bogota, or in the Sandwich Islands, 
and, dying, had left his fortune to Petrus, ought Petrus to 
have refused it? 

Under similar circumstances, reader, whose judgment is so 
severe, would you refuse four millions of capital, and five 
hundred thousand francs per annum from a godfather, no 
matter how unexpected it might have been? 

You would, of course, accept it. 

And if you would accept an enormous sum like that from 
a dead godfather, why would you not accept ten, fifteen, 
twenty, thirty, fifty, or a hundred thousand francs from the 
same man when alive? 

What was the future of which Petrus dreamed during 
these few minutes of silence? What golden horizons un- 
folded before his eyes? How sweet were those floating clouds 
of hope and joy! 

The captain spoke. 

‘^Well?” he asked. 

Petrus started, and fell from heaven to earth. 

‘‘I am at your orders,’’ he said. 

“Even to go to the Thedtro Frangais?” asked the captain, 
gayly. 

“To go wherever you wish.” 

“Your self-sacrifice is so great that it deserves to be re- 
warded. But we will not go to the Thedtre Fran9ais; trag- 
edy to-night would not interest us much. I will go for my 
valise, thank my hostess, and will be at vour rooms in an 
hour.” 

“Shall T go with you?” 

“ No; I give you your freedom for a time. Go about your 
own affairs, if you have any at this hour^ — and you ought to 
have, my boy, for you are good looking enough to make many 
a woman crazy about you.” 

“ But you are greatly mistaken ” 

“And l.am quite sure,” continued the captain, with his 
loud laugh, which was half shrewd and half vulgar, “that 
you love them all; if you don’t, you are not your father’s 
own son! Was there not a Eoman emperor who wished that 
all men had but one head, that they might be decapitated by 
one blow?” 


EQSE-DE-XOEL, 


87 


‘^Yes — Caligula.’’ 

‘‘ Well, your good father wished — unlike this bandit Calig- 
ula, you know — that he had a hundred lips, to embrace a 
hundred women at once.” 

“I am not so avaricious as my father,” said P6trus; “one 
pair is all I want.” 

“You are in love, then?” 

“Alas!” sighed Petrus. 

“ Bravo! 1 would have disinherited 3^ou if you had not been 
in love, let me tell you. And, of course, you are loved in 
return. That goes without saying.” 

“ Yes, I am loved, and I thank Heaven for that.” 

“ Is she beautiful?” 

“As an angel.” 

“Then, my boy, I come in the nick of time. Was it tlie 
dowry that prevented your marriage? I have brought one — 
two, if necessary.” 

“Thank you a hundred times, dear godfather— she is 
married.” 

“ What! In love with a married woman! You are a moral 
youth, to be sure!” 

“My dear godfather, circumstances are such that it is not 
an offense to morality to love her.” 

“Then please tell me the story. No? Then we will say 
no more about it. Keep your secret, my boy. You will tell 
me about it when we know each other better, and perhaps 
you will not altogether throw away your time. I am a man 
of resources, you know. We old sea-dogs have had time to 
study all the ruses of war; we are full of resources — but wo 
won’t say any more now. It is easier to be entirely silent 
than not to say too much if we open our lips. Thomas 
a Kempis says something of this kind, in Book I., Chapter 

XX.” 

This last quotation was too much for Petrus. He felt as 
if he had struck a mine of learning. And if Puits-qui-Parle 
had spoken himself, he could not have spoken better than 
Captain Berthaut, alias Monte-Hauban, had done. He spoke 
well on any subject. He had seen everything and heard 
everything; he had acquaintances everywhere, and it was 
easy to see that there was a good deal underneath. 

Petrus passed one hand over his brow, to wipe off the beads 
of sweat that had started out, and the other over his eyes, to 
see, if possible, a little more clearly into this adventure. 

“Oh, oh!” said the sailor, pulling out an enormous 


88 


BOSE-DE-KOEL. 


chronometer, “it is ten o’clock, my hoy, and time to he 

moving.” . r ii. 

The two men took up their hats and set lortn. 

The dinner amounted to one hundred and seventy frim(^. 
The captain handed the ,ffarpo« two hundred francs, and bade 
him keep the change. 

The carriage was at the door. / 

Petrus requested the captain to enter, but the old man re- 
fused, saying that he had ordered a carriage for himself in 
order that he should not deprive Petrus of his own. 

It was of no use to say anything— the captain was not to 
be moved. 

The carriage for which he had sent now arrived. 

‘‘Don’t make any change in your usual habits,” said the 
■captain. “If I don’t see you to say good night, I will say 
good morning. Stay out as late as you please. Coachman! 
Ohaussee d’Antin, Hotel de Havre.” 

“ Au revoir, then,” said Petrus; and in a low voice to his 
coachman, he added, “Your usual route.” 

And the two carriages departed in opposite directions — the 
captain’s going up the right bank, and the artist’s crossing 
the Seine at the Pont des Tuileries, and following the left 
shore to the Boulevard des Invalides. 

Our readers, we trust, have divined where the young man 
was going. 

The carriage stopped at the corner of the boulevard and 
the Rue de Sevres, which, as we know, is parallel to the Rue 
Plumet. 

When he reached this. point, Petrus opened his coupe him- 
self and Jumped out, leaving the coachman to close the door, 
and began his usual walk under Regina’s window. 

The blinds were closed, except two m the bedroom, it 
was Regina’s habit to leave these open, that the first rays of 
daylight might awaken her. The curtains were drawn; but 
tlie lamp hanging from the ceiling lighted the curtain in 
such a way that the shadow of the lady could be seen as she 
moved through the room, thrown on the white curtain as 
from a magic-lantern. Regina was slowly pacing the room, 
with her right elbow in her left hand, and her chin resting 
on her right. 

It was a graceful attitude, but one that expressed intense, 
thought. 

Of what was she thinking? 

Ah! it is easy to guess. 




nOS'E-'DTl-'N’OirL. 89 

Of tlie love slie felt for Petrus and that which Petrus felt 
for her. 

And he — why had he come? 

He came to tell her of the strange events of the evening; 
to tell her in thought, if not in words, of his good fortune; 
for she was his first thought when any unusual event hap- 
pened, whether it was joyous or sad. 

He walked up and down for an hoty, and did not go away 
untd Regina’s lamp was out. 

Then, in the darkness, he extended his arms and wished 
her every blessing; then walked slowly home, with his heart 
full of gentle thoughts. On reaching his rooms, he found 
that the captain was duly installed. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE artist’s dreams. 

Oh entering the house, Petrus felt a certain curiosity to 
see how his guest had settled himself. 

He knocked softly on the door, not wishing to awaken his 
godfather if he were really asleep: but this knock, gentle as 
it was, was hardly heard when a vigorous voice replied: 

‘‘Come in!” 

The captain was in his bed; on his head was a silk hand- 
kerchief, the ends of which were brought around his neck. 
This nocturnal precaution was probably taken to keep the 
hair and beard in the shape they were to wear by day. 

He held in his hand a book, taken from the shelves, and 
looked as if he were' enjoying it. 

Petrus glanced at the book stealthily, in order to form some 
idea of his godfather’s fiterary tastes; he wished, in short, to 
solve a problem, and discover if this sailor belonged to the old 
or new school. 

The book that Berthaut was reading was Fontaine’s Fables. 

“Ah! in bed already, godfather?” said Petrus. 

“ Yes; and very comfortable, too; as you can see for your- 
self.” 

“ You like the bed, then?” 

“No.” 

“How do you mean?” 

“We old sea-dogs, you know, prefer to sleep on something 
hard; but I shall get used to this, I suppose— one gets accus- 
tomed to everything in this world!” 


00 


ROSE-DE-KOEL. 


Petrus said to liirnself that his godfather employed the 
term old sea-dog ” too often; but as he used few nautical ex- 
pressions, he thought this especial one could be overlooked. 
Consequently, struggling against the momentary annoyance 
lie felt, he said: 

Then you have everything you want?’’ 
very thing. The cabin of an admiral’s ship is not so 
well arranged as this so-called bachelor’s apartment, and I 
feel as if my youth had returned.” 

May you continue to feel so as long as you live!” said 
Petrus, laughing. 

I have no objection; though we old sea-dogs are not fond 
of changes.” 

Petrus made a wry face. 

‘‘Ah!” said the captain, “you have noticed my unfortu- 
nate phrase. But never mind, I will correct it.” 

“ Oh! you are at liberty to say and do what you choose, of 
course.” 

“No, no; I know my faults. Besides, you are not the first 
to reproach me for this bad habit.” 

“ Pray do not think that I mean to reproach you.” 

“ My boy, a man who is accustomed to read a storm twenty- 
four hours in advance, takes notice of the smallest cloud. 
But you need not be troubled; I will watch myself, particu- 
larly when there are strangers h^re.” 

‘‘ But I am mortified ” 

'“At what? That your godfather, captain as he is, is only 
a coarse sailor after all. But his heart is good, as you will 
find out. Now, go to bed; to-morrow we will talk over your 
affairs. But tell me, before you go, that you did not expect 
to see your godfather to-day.” 

“ 1 am bewildered; and assure you that if I did not see you 
before me in the flesh at this moment, I should be inclined 
to believe that I had been dreaming.” 

The captain shook his head, and answered, in a melan- 
choly tone: 

“•Ah! my dear godson, you may believe me. or not; but. I 
assure you tliat I should prefer a talent like yours, rather than 
to possess the inexhaustible wealth that is mine. I never 
think of my fortune without saying to myself these verses 
of the good Fontaine. 

And pointing to the volume on the night-table, he quoted: 

, - “ Ni Tor ni la grandeur ne nous rendent heureux! 

Ces deux divinites n’accordenl t nos vopux 

Que des biciis pen c ei tains, qu’uu plaisir peu tranquille.” 


rose-de-jtoel. 91 

Petrus opened his lips to dispute this opinion, but the cap- 
tain went on: 

“ Had I not found you, my boy, I should not have known 
what to do with my money. I should have founded some 
pious institution, some hospital for sick sailors, or some place 
of refuge for exiled kings. But I have found you, and now I 
can say with Orestes, 

‘ Ma fortune va prendre une face nouvelle.* 

And now be off with you! Go to bedl^’ 

“ I obey, and very willingly, for I must rise early to-mor- 
row morning. The auction is advertised for Sunday, and I 
ought to communicate with the sheriff, otherwise he will be 
here on Saturdav, and take everything off.’’ 

‘‘Take what?’’ 

“The furniture.” 

“The furniture!” repeated the captain. 

“ Oh, you need not be concerned,” said Petrus, laughing, 
“your rooms are safe.” 

“Take off your furniture, indeed! I should like to see 
any one come here, my boy, and carry off anything without 
my permission. I would strip his skin over his ears, let me 
tell you!” 

You will not have that trouble, godfather.” 

^‘It would not be a Rouble, it would be a pleasure. But 
good night once more. Don’t get up in the morning until I 

come to wake you — we old No, that won’t do — we 

sailors have a way of rising at dawn. Good night.” 

Petrus said “good night” most cordially, and left the 
room. 

It is hardly needful to say that he dreamed of Golconda 
and El DoraSo that night. In his dreams, or rather, the 
first part of the night, the captain appeared upon a rosy cloud, 
the genius of diamond and gold mines; but the ruling star 
of his dreams was Kegina, in whose hair P6trus himself 
placed brilliant gems and glowing flowers, made of jewels. 
Let us here remark that his godfather’s obnoxious phrase, 
“we old sea-dogs,” came to his mind only as a blemish on 
these diamonds. 

The next morning at dawn. Captain Monte-Hauban opened 
his eyes, and, with the aid of a ray that found its way through 
the blinds, consulted his chronometer. 

It was not yet four o’clock. 

He felt that he could not, wuth any grace, awaken his god- 


92 


BOSE-DE-XOEL, 


son at this hour, so he turned his face to the wall and closed 
his eyes with a firm determination to sleep. 

Man proposes, and God disposes.” 

Either because it was his usual hour for rising, or because 
his conscience was njit quite easy, the captain found it impos- 
sible to sleep, and al the end of ten minutes he sprung out of 
bed with an oath. 

The cares of his toilet occupied him some little time; it 
was half past four when the captain had completed it. 

What on earth am I to do now?” he said to himself. He 
did not wish to go out at this eccentric hour, and began to 
pace the room. He did this for awhile, and then, in all 
probability, weary of this exercise, he opened the window 
looking out on the Boulevard Montparnasse, and breathed the 
fresh air and listened to the birds singing merrily in the trees. 
But he was soon tired of the breeze and the birds, and began 
to pace his room once more. Suddenly, his eyes fell on a tall 
oak chair, he immediately seated himself astride upon it, 
and began to whistle one of those maritime airs which had 
probabl y been at one period the delight of his ship. After 
doing this for some lime, he stopped, and said in a dismal 
tone: 

It makes me very thirsty!” 

He looked around to see if there were no means of remedy- 
ing this inconvenience, and then struck himself violently on 
his forehead — so violently that he was himself astonished. 

^‘Upon my word!” he said, I begin to think I am an idiot! 
Here am I choking to death, and the cellar is just under 
me!” 

He opened the door softly, and went down the twelve or 
fifteen steps that led to the cellar, which, for the cellar of 
a young man, was very well stocked with a great variety of 
choice wines. It was only necessary for the captain to cast one 
glance around, assisted by the wax taper that ho took from 
his pocket, to discern by their long necks the bottles con- 
taining a choice Bordeaux. 

He drew out a bottle, and holding it in front of his light, 
he recognized ic as white wine. 

‘^Excellent!” he murmured. 

Then, drawing out another bottle from the same pile, the 
sailor closed the cellar door carefully, and stole back to his 
room. 

If this wine be good,” he said to himself, as he locked 
his door after him, and placed the bottles on the table with 


ROSE-DE-KOEL. 


93 


infinite precaution, can wait with patience until my 
nephew wakes.’’ 

He took the glass which had served to rinse his mouth, 
and washed it carefully that the odor and taste of the eau de 
Botot might not impair the bouquet of the wine, and then 
pulled a chair to the table. 

Any one else, I suppose,” said the captain, seating him- 
self, and drawing out from his immense pocket a horn-han- 
dled knife with many blades — “any one else might be pre- 
vented from enjoying this wine by the simple fact that he 
had no corkscrew, not we old sea-dogs,” and the captain 
stopped to laugh; “ we are not disturbed by trifles, and we are 
also in the habit of traveling with all our luggage about us.” 

As he spoke be drew out the cork of the bottle with infinite 
care and respect, then, putting liis nose to the mouth, he ex- 
claimed, rapturously: 

“ What a perfume! If its song resembles its plumage, 
we shall have a little talk together which will not be lacking 
in charm.” 

He poured out a glass and smelled it for a moment before 
he tasted it. . 

“Exquisite! Divine!” he murmured. 

Then placing the glass on the table, he added: 

“I should like to have a few baskets of this rich wine in 
my room and drink it from morning to night.” 

The captain continued to swallow, slowly and comfortably, 
the two bottles of Bordeaux; stoj^ping occasionally to utter 
sound reflections on the especial merits of white wine. 

This soliloquy and this soaking, if we may be permitted to 
use this word in reference to a man who drinks by himself, 
lasted until six o’clock. 

At that hour he became impatient again, and began to 
pace his room once more. 

He looked at his watch. 

The hands indicated half past six. 

Just at this moment the clock of Val-de*Grace struck six. / 

The captain shook his head. 

“ It is half past six,” he said, “and that clock is wrong; 
but, after all,” he added, philosophically, “ what could one 
expect from a hospital clock?” 

He waited a little longer, and then exclaimed: 

“My godson told me to wake him early, and upon my life, 

I don’t see why I can’t go to his room once more. I should 
probably disturb him in some golden dream.” 

So saying, he mounted the stairs, whistling as he went. 


ROSE-DE-KOEL. 


The key was in the door of the studio, and also of the bed- 
room. 

‘'Oh! oh!” muttered the captain. “Youth! imprudent 
youth!” 

Then he softly opened the door of the studio and put his 
head in, it was empty. 

The captain shut the door as quietly as possible. But in 
spite of his care the hinges creaked. 

“ That door needs oiling,” murmured the captain. 

Then he went to the chamber, and opened that door with 
the same precaution, and without the slightest noise; and as 
the floor was covered with a thick Smyrna nig, the old sea- 
dog reached the young man’s bed without disturbing him. 

Petrus was lying with both arms and both legs out of 
bed, as if he had thrown himself in this position during a 
bad dream, and looked very much like the child in the fable, 
who fell asleep near the edge of a well. 

The captain seized the situation at once, and shaking the 
young man by the arm, exclaimed: 

“ Mon mignon, lui dit-il, je vous sauve la vie. 

Soyez une autre fois plus sage, 3 e vous prie ! 

Si vousfussiez tombe, I’on s’en fut pris a nioi.” 

Perhaps he would have continued the quotation, but Petrus 
opened his eyes with a start; and seeing the captain standing 
by him, he extended his hand to a yataghan that hung as an 
ornament, as well as a means of defense, within his reach, 
and would unquestionably have cut down the sailor, had that 
person not caught his arm. 

“ Very good, my boy, very good! You have had the night- 
mare, I see.” 

“Ah, godfather!” cried Petrus, “how thankful I am that 
you woke me, for I have had a most terrible nightmare.” 

“ What did you dream, my boy?” 

“ A most absurd thing.” 

“Good! Perhaps you dreamed that I bad returned to 


India?” 


“ No; if I had dreamed that it would not have mattered so 
much.” 

“Not mattered so much! it strikes me that does not sound 
very cordial.” 

“Ah! if you knew what my dream was!” continued Petrus, 
his brow. 



ou can tell me that as you dress,” said the captain, with 


ROSE-DE-i^OEL, 


95 


that good-natured, jolly air which no one could assume better 
than himself. I should like to hear it.’^ 

‘‘ No, indeed; the dream is far too stupid to be told.” 

“ Then you think, my lad, that we sea-dogs won’t stand 
stupidity?” 

, “Ah! Here is the sea-dog back again!” muttered Petrus; 
then, in a louder voice, he added: “ You wish to hear?” 

“ Of course I do, or I should not have asked.” 

“As you please'; though I really do not care to tell it.” 

“lam sure you dreamed that I devoured human flesh,” 
said the captain, laughing. 

“If that were all!” 

“Zounds!” cried the sailor, “I think that be quite bad 
enough.” 

“It was worse than that, though; I was dreaming when you 
woke me— — ” 

“ Go on; you were dreaming when I woke you that 

“That you had assassinated me.” 

“ Is that true?” 

“ Upon my word.” 

“ Then you are a lucky fellow.” 

“How do you mean?” 

“ ‘ Dream of death and you will be rich,’ the East Ipdians 
say, and they know all about death and wealth. You are 
certainly in luck, Pdtrus.” 

“You really think so?” 

“I had just such a dream once, and what think you hap- 
pened to me the next day?” 

“ I can’t say.” 

“Well, the day after I dreamed that I was assassinated, 
and it was your father who did the deed — you see what 
foolish things dreams are — I assisted your father in the capture 
of the * Saint-Sebastian,’ a Portuguese vessel coming from 
Sumatra laden with rupees. Your father, as his share of 
the prize-money, got six hundred thousand livres, and I a 
hundred thousand crowns. This, my boy, is what is sure to 
follow when one dreams of being assassinated.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

* PETRUS Ais-D HIS GUESTS. 

Petrus rose and rang the bell before he began to dress. * 
The servant appeared. 


ROSE-DE-NOEL. 


on 

'^Have tlie horse put in, I want to go out this morning 
before breakfast’’ 

Then the young man began to dress. As the clock struck 
eight he was informed tliat the, coupe was at the door. 

You are entirely at home,” said Petrus to the captain; 
‘^go where you will. My bed- room, studio, and boudoir are 
equally at your service.” 

^‘Even the studio, my boy?” asked the old sailor. 

“Most certainly; it is but just that you should enjoy the 
pictures and bric-a-brcw that you have preserved for me.” 

“Then it will not disturb you to have me in the studio?” 

“ Never — except, you understand ” 

“ Yes; you mean when you have a model or a sitter that 
you do not want me. Of course not.” 

“ Well, then, on Suiiday I begin a portrait which will re- 
quire some twenty sittings.” 

“ Oh! oh! some great dignitary of state?” 

“ No, only a little girl.” 

Then affecting the greatest indifference he added: 

“ She is the youngest daughter of the Marshal deLamothe- 
Houdan.” i 

“Ah!” . * 

“ The sister of the Comtesse Rappt.” 

“ Oon’t know her. Have you books hew?” 

“ Yes, and down stairs also; you had La Fontaine in your 
hand last night.” 

“Yes, I know; La Fontaine and Bernardin de Saint- 
Pierre are my two favorite authors.” 

“ You will find also all the modern novels and a good collec- 
tion of travels.” 

“ These are just the books I never read.” ' 

“ And why, pray?” 

“^Because as to the travels I have done it all myself, and 
my observation has taught me that reality goes much further 
than imagination. Now, to read lies less interesting than 
the events which we ourselves have seen take place in natural 
succession is hardly worth the trouble, and I am not enough 
of an executioner to care to kill time in that way. No, I 
like Plato, Epicetus, and Socrates, among the ancients; 
Malebranche, Montaigne, Descartes, Kant, and Spinosa, 
among the moderns — these are my favorite authors.” 

“ My dear godfather,” answeredx Petrus^ laughing, “ I 
must admit that I have heard of thegentlernen you mention 
but with the exception of Plato and Socrates and of Mon- 
taigne, I know nothing of them; but as I know a publisher 


ROSE-DE-KOEL. 


97 


wlio buys my friend Jean Kobert’s pieces, and who sells me 
Victor Hugo’s odes and ballades, Lamartine’s ‘ Meditations ’ 
and Alfred de Vigny’s poems, I will tell him as I go by to 
send you a collection of these old philosophers. I will not 
promise to read them myself, but I will have them bound 
and their names shall shine on my book-shelves like fixed 
stars.” 

Very good, my boy, and give the volumes to a messenger 
and bid him cut the pages. My nerves are so susceptible that 
I never could do it.” 

Petrus waved his hand in farewell to Godfather Pierre 
and hurried away. 

Godfather Pierre stood in the same place for a minute or 
two, listening intently until hC heard the coupe roll away. 

Then lifting his 'head and shaking it, he thrust his two 
hands deep into his pockets, and humming a little air, went 
from the bedroom into the studio. 

Every piece of furniture became in turn an especial study 
for this amateur. 

He opened the drawers of an old Louis XV. secretary, and 
sounded them to discover if they had no false bottoms. 

A rosewood chiffonier was carefully examined; the captain 
seemed to be remarkably shrewd in discovering secrets, and 
pressing on the chiffonier, or rather under the chiffonier in a 
peculiar fashion, a small drawer started out. It was so per- 
fectly concealed that it is doubtful if the man who sold it to 
Petrus, or Petrus himself, had ever known of its existence. 

This drawer contained papers and letters. The papers 
were assignats, and were for some five hundred thousand 
francs; but at the date of which we write, they were worth 
four sous, as they weighed about a pound and a half. 

The letters were a political correspondence, and were dated 
between 1793 and 1798. The captain seemed to entertein 
the greatest contempt for these letters, with their revolution-- 
ary dates, for after satisfying himself as to what they were, 
he closed the drawer with his foot so skillfully that it was 
never opened again for some thirty years. 

But the piece of furniture which most attracted the cap- 
tain’s attention was the cabinet in which Petrus kept Re- 
gina’s letters. 

These letters, as we have before said, w^ere in a small iron 
box, a marvelous bit of work, of the reign of Louis XIII. 

This box was clamped to the shelf of the cabinet, and 
could not be lifted — not an unwise precaution in case an am- 
ateur should be unduly tempted by this little masterpiece. 


08 


ROSE-DE-]!?-OEL. 


The captain was probably an admirer of such things, for after 
making an attempt to lift it— of course to carry it to the 
light — and finding that it was immovable, he began to exam- 
ine it very closely, especially the lock. 

He was occupied in this way when he heard the coupe stop 
at the door. 

He instantly shut the cabinet, and taking the first book he 
could find, threw himself into an arm-chair. 

Petrus returned in the best of spirits. He had been to all his 
tradespeople to carry to them a little on account,’’ and found 
every one of these worthy creatures deeply touched by the 
pains taken by the young Comte Herbel in coming himself 
to bring money, which they could just as well come to him 
to obtain; besides, they were in no hurry, they added. {Sev- 
eral ventured to allude to the sale of which tliey had heard; 
but Petrus, with heightened color, replied that there was no 
truth in the report, as he had changed his mind. He had 
thought of selling out the old furniture and replacing it with 
new, but he found when the time came that he could not 
make up his mind to part with it. He felt too much as if 
separating from old fnends. The tradespeople complimented 
the Viscount on his good heart, and offered their services 
should he change his mind again. 

P6trus kept about three thousand francs, and gave his 
notes at six months. And in that time he could make forty 
thousand francs. 

What a wonderful power is money! Petrus, thanks to 
the pile of notes that had been seen in his hand, could now 
have bought anything he wanted. Petrus, empty handed, 
could not have obtained credit for a wooden chair. 

The young man as he came in cordially extended his hand 
to the captain. Plife heart was very full of joy, and his last 
lingering scru|^le had vanished. 

The captain seemed to be in a profound reverie, and all he 
said to his godson was: 

When shall we breakfast?” 

‘‘ At any time you please,” answered Petrus. 

“ Then I say, at once, by all means.” 

But before going out again, Petrus had a question to ask. 

He rang tlie bell. 

Jean appeared. 

Petrus-questioned him with his eyes. 

The man nodded silently. 

Well?” asked Petrus. 

Jean looked at the sailor. 


KOSE-BE-KOEL. 


99 


^"Nonsense!’- said Petrus; ‘^give it to me." 

Jean went to his master’s side, and, from a small Russian 
leather portfolio, which seemed to be made expressly for the 
ofiBce that it held at that moment, he took out a small 
letter coquettishly folded. Petrus hastily unfolded it and 
drank in its contents. 

Then he took from his pocket a similar portfolio, and re- 
placed the letters it contained with the one just received, and 
going to the cabinet, he opened the little colfer with a golden 
key which he wore on a chain around his neck. Kissing the 
letter furtively, he placed it in the coffer, and closed it with 
care. 

Then turning to the captain, who had been watching him 
with intense attention, he said: 

“Now, if you wish to breakfast, godfather ” 

“I always wish to breakfast at ten o’clock in the morning,” 
the captain replied. 

“ The carriage is at the door, and T offer you a student’s 
breakfast at the Caf6 de I’Odeon.” 

“At Risbecq’s, you mean?” 

“Ah! you know it, then?” 

“ My dear friend,” returned the sailor, “restaurants and 
philosophers are the two things in this world for which I en- 
tertain the most profound respect. And I will convince you 
of this by making out the order myself.” 

The two men entered the coup4, and drove to the Cafe 
Risbecq. 

The captain ascended the stairs without any hesitation, and 
said to the gavQon, who handed him a card as he took his 
seat at the table: 

“ Two dozen oysters, two beefsteaks and potatoes, two tur- 
bots a pears, grapes, and chocolate.” 

“You are right, godfather,” said Petrus, laughing. “ You 
are a great philosopher, and a true gourmand.” 

The captain, unmindful of this interruption, continued: 

“ Sauterne with the oysters, beaune with the rest of the 
breakfast.” 

“ A bottle of each ?” asked the waiter. 

“We can tell better when we have tasted it.” 

In the meantime the porter at the young artist’s rooms had 
sent away many disappointed amateurs, telling them that his 
master had changed his mind, and that the sale would not 
take place. 


100 


ROSE-DE~KOEL. 


CHAPTEE XVIII. 

THE OPINION OF THREE FRIENDS IN REGARD TO THE 
* CAPTAIN. 

After breakfast, the captain sent the gar^on fora cab, and 
when Petrus said: 

“ Why do we not go together?’’ replied that he had to 
look at houses. 

‘‘ Ah! to be sure. Shall I assist you?” asked Petrus. 

‘‘I have my alfairs and you have yours. You ought to 
reply to that little note you received this morning; then, too, 
I am somewhat capricious. I might buy a house to-day and 
hate it in a week’s time. If I should allow myself to be 
influenced by the opinions of any one else, I might not even 
unpack my trunks in it.” . 

Petrus began to see that if he and his godfather were to 
continue on good terms that he must be left entirely master 
of his own movements. He contented himself then with 
saying: 

“Very well, godfather; you know that you are welcome at 
whatever hour you may choose to return.” 

The captain nodded his thanks, and entered the cab. 

Petrus returned home with his heart as light as a feather. 

He met Ludovie at the door, and knew as soon as he 
glanced at him that something had happened. 

In fact Ludovic had come to announce the disappearance 
of Rose-de-Noel. 

Petrus began by pitying the young doctor, then these 
words came naturally to his lips: 

“ Have you seen Salvator?”' 

“ Yes,” answered Ludovic. 

“Well?” 

“I found him as severe and calm as usual; he already 
knew the intelligence that I had come to give h'lm.” 

“ What did he say?” 

“ He said, ‘ I will find Eose-de-Noe^ Ludovic, but if I do 
so I shall place her in a convent, where you can see her only 
as a physician, or when you have decided to take her as your 
wife. Do you love her?’ ” 

“ And what did you say in reply?” asked Petrus. 

“ The truth, friend. 1 told him I loved this child with all 
my heart. ‘ Salvator,’ I said, ‘ if you will find Eose-de-Hoel, 


ROSE-DE-J^OEL. 


101 


I fiwear to you that the day she is fifteen I will marry her.’ 
‘ Eich or poor?’ asked Salvator. I hesitated. It was not the 
word poor that stopped me; it was the word rich. Salvator 
repeated the question. ‘ You know,’ he said, ‘ that Kose-de* 
Noel is either a foundling ora lost child; you know, too, 
that Roland once knew her. Now, Roland is a dog of aristo- 
cratic tendencies, and it is quite as probable that she is of 
wealthy parentage as of poor. Will you take her with your 
eyes closed ?’ ” 

‘‘ ‘ But Rose*de- Noel’s relatives might not choose to accept 
me,’ I said, and Salvator answered, ‘I will attend to that; I 
only wish now to know if you will make this child your wife 
on her fifteenth birthday?’ But, Petrus, all this does not 
help us to find the poor child. God only knows where she is 
now.” 

‘‘And Salvator, where is he?” 

“I know not; he has left Paris, I think; he asked for 
seven or eight days in which to look for Rose-de-Noel, and 
told me to be at his rooms in the Rue de Macon Thursday 
next. But now tell me something of yourself. You have 
changed your plans, it seems.” 

Petrus, in his enthusiasm, related to Ludovic all that had 
taken place, but the latter, skeptical as physicians are likely 
to be, would not accept mere words from his friend, he 
demanded proofs. 

Petrus showed him the two bank-notes that remained from 
the ten lent him by the captain. 

Ludovic took one of the notes and examined it carefully. 
“Well,” asked Petrus, “ is it forged?” 

“No,” answered Ludovic. “I have not much experience 
with bank-notes, to be sure, but this looks good to me. To 
tell the truth, however. I do not believe in uncles who come 
from America, and still less in godfathers. You must talk 
to Salvator.” 

“But,” answered Petrus, “did you not just tell me that 
Salvator will be away from Paris for some days.” 

“ That is true, but can’t we see your nabob?” 

“ Of course, if you wish; but wlich of us is likely to see 
Jean Robert first?” 

“ I,” said Ludovic. “ I am going to a rehearsal of one of 
his plays.” 

“Then you can tell him about the captain.” 

“ What captain?” 

“Captain Pierre Borthaut Monte-Hanban, my godfather,” 
^‘Have you written to your lather?” 


102 KOSE-BE-NOEL, , 

About what?’’ 

‘‘ Your godfather.” 

‘■‘That was my first idea, but the captain wished to sur- 
prise him, and begged me to say nothing about him.” 

Ludovic shook his head. 

“You still doubt?” asked Ptous, 

“ The tiling seems to me so very extraordinary.” 

“ And is niore extraordinary in my eyes than in yours. I 
cannot get over the impression that it is a dream; I pinch 
myself, to see if I am fully awake.” 

Any way, it is very unfortunate that Salvator is not here 
now,” persisted Ludovic. 

“ Yes, you are right there,” and Petrus laid his hand on 
his friend’s shoulder. “ Yes, it is unfortunate; but what 
would you have, Ludovic? There could be no misfortune 
greater than the one to which I was condemned. I do not 
know where these new events will take me, but I do know 
that they have delivered me from terrible misfortunes, and 
they turned me from the path down which I was rolling; at 
the foot of this path was a terrible precipice. The other 
path may be equally steep, and I may have as far to fall — but 
of this I can’t be sure; and if I break my neck now, it will 
be at least after I have been blessed with some happy antici- 
pations, and even a little positive happiness.”- 

“So be it, then! Do you remember when Jean Robert, 
last Mardi-gras, asked Salvator for the plot of a romance? 
We seem to have plenty of them now. First, there is Salvator 
and Fragola — past unknown, but living a romance now; Jus- 
tin and Mina, Carmelite and Colomban — a dreary story from 
beginning to end; Jean Robert and Madame Marande— a 
laughing tale of love, with sapphire eyes and rosy lips in pro- 
fusion; you and 

“ Ludovic!” 

“It is true, this last is a most mysterious romance, dark 
and fascinating. Then there is Rose-de-Noel and myself. 
Think of me, betrothed to a child lost in her babyhood, 
whom Salvator promises to find! Is not that a romance, my 
dear fellow? Then, too, there is the Princesse de Vanvres. 
She, too, has her romance.” 

“ How do you mean?” 

“ I saw her driving yesterday on the boulevard, with four 
horses. The leaders were mounted by two jockeys, in white 
breeches and red vests. I did not intend to recognize her, 
not knowing what her wishes might be, though convinced it 


ROSE-DE-KOEL. 


103 


was she, but she made a little sign with her hand — gloved by 
Privat or Boivin — and this hand held a handkerchief worth 
at least three hundred francs. Now, which of all these 
romances will end ill? — ^^which will end happily? God^only 
knows! Good-by, Tetrus; I must go to the rehearsal.”^ 
Bring Jean Bobert here.” 

I will try; but why can’t you go with me?” 

‘‘Impossible! I must put my studio in order. I have a 
sitter Sunday.” 

“Then I will come Sunday.” 

“My doors will be closed from twelve to four, but the rest 
of the time, door, heart, and hand are all open to you.” 

The two friends exchanged a cordial grasp of the hand, 
another adieu, and separated. 

P6trus began to arrange his studio. 

It was a great thing to receive Eegina, who had never been 
to his studio but once, when she came with the Marquise de 
la Tournelle. 

It is true, that day was the turning point in the life of 
Petrus. 

At the end of an hour all was in readiness. At the end of 
two hours, not only did the canvas stand on the easel, but 
the sketch was made. 

Little Bee was among the tropical vegetation of the hot- 
house so familiar to Petrus. She was seated on the fresh 
turf, amusing herself by making a bouquet of those fantastic 
flowers which, as a rule, children see only in dreams. Her 
head was turned, listening to the song of a blue- bird among 
the delicate foliage of a mimosa. 

If Petrus had chosen, he, now that this sketch was satis- 
factory, could have gone on with the picture and finished it 
in a week. 

But he saw that to do this would be to throw away much 
happiness, therefore he wiped out the sketch he had made. 

The captain did not return until eight o’clock. He had 
been everywhere in search of a house, he said, but had found 
nothing that was satisfactory. He intended, however, to 
pursue the investigation the next day. 

From this moment the captain made himself as comfortable 
with Petrus as if he had been in his own house. 

Petrus presented him to Ludovic and Jean Bobert. The 
three young men passed Saturday evening with him, and it 
was agreed that as long as he remained in Paris they should 
all spend one evening in the week together. 


104 


EOSE-DE-NOEL. 


As to the day, that was not to be thought of. The captain 
disappeared every morumg as soon as breakfast was over, 
under pretext of looKing for a house. 

Where did he go? 

God or the devil may have known, but Petrus did not. 
He was a little curious, however, and several times ap- 
proached the subject, but his godfather silenced him at 
once, saying: 

‘‘ Do not question me, my boy, for I cannot answer you. 
It is a secret. I can only say that love is not altogether a 
stranger to it. Do not be troubled, even, should I be absent 
a couple of days at a time. I may disappear suddenly, but 
I shall always turn up again. Like all old sea-dogs, I am 
apt to remain where I am comfortable, and this is my way of 
saying that when I feci in the mood I generally stay where I 
am at night, and don’t trouble myself to come back here 
until again in the mood.” 

Ah! I see,” said Petrus; but you are very kind to give 
me this explanation.” 

‘‘ We agree, therefore, my boy, not to interfere with each 
other in any way. Then, too, 1 ought to tell you that some- 
times I may take it into my head to spend entire days in the 
house. I sometimes feel a need of repose and meditation. 
I should therefore be greatly obliged if you would send to my 
room the volumes of history and philosophy which you said 
you would order, and also a dozen or so of bottles of your 
best white wine.” 

The opinions of the three young men in regard to the cap- 
tain were singularly diverse. 

Ludovic disliked him intensely, either because, being a 
believer in Gall and Lavater, he did not consider the pro- 
tuberances on his head and the lines of his face in harmony 
with his words, or because, being excessively refined in thought 
and in speech, Ludovic was perpetually disgusted with expres- 
sions used by the old sea-dog. Whatever the cause may have 
been, he could not stand the man, as he told his companions 
after first seeing him. 

Jean Kobert delighted in the picturesque and in originality, 
and therefore, without precisely adoring the captain, he felt 
for him a very positive interest. 

As to Petrus, he felt bound to like the captain, and 
would have considered it traitorous to doubt a man who 
asked nothing more than permission to heap riches upon 
him. 

We must admit, however, that certain phrases used 


EOSE-DE-NOEL, lOo 

constantly by the captain, especially ^^we sea-dogs,” grated 
horribly on his ear. 

In short, the captain had not awakened any very positive 
sympathy in these three yonng men, and even Petrus and 
Jean Robert, the two who were most disposed to fraternize 
with him, found it difficult to get on with so peculiar a person 
as this Captain Pierre Berthaut, who, in his naivete, thought 
himself at liberty to express all his opinions in the frankest 
possible manner. 

Certain things he said, however, betrayed a nature that was 
thoroughly lilase — so lilase that he believed in nothing and 
cared for nothing. Sometimes he was excessively jovial, at 
others as solemn as a funeral-mute. He was a being com- 
posed of the most heterogeneous qualities — an inexplicable 
compound of the most brilliant characteristics and the most 
glaring faults, of the noblest sentiments and the vilest pas- 
sions. Cultivated, as we have said-^almost pedantic, in fact 
— he nevertheless appeared at times to be the most ignorant 
of all created beings. He talked admirably of painting, and 
could not draw a line; he talked delightfully of music, and 
did not know a note. He one morning asked if one of the 
young men would not in the evening read to him “Les 
Guelfes et les Gibelins,” and after the reading, he pointed 
out to Jean Robert the principal faults in the play with a 
discrimination and judgment that astonished the author, 
who said: 

‘‘Have I the honor of speaking to a confrere 

“Only an aspirant,” answered the captain, modestly, 
“though I can’t deny that I had my hand in several of the 
dramas represented at the close of the last century, more 
especially in the tragedy of ‘ Genevieve de Brabant.’ I 
worked with Citizen C^cile, and the play was represented 
for the first time at the Odeon,' the 14th Brumaire, Year 
VI.” 

A week elapsed. The captain was shown every theater 
in Paris; he was compelled to take a ride in the Bois de 
Boulogne, and showed himself to be a consummate horseman; 
all sorts of amusements w^ere devised for him; and the captain, 
touched to tears, told Petrus that before long his friends 
would receive tangible proof of his gratitude and his friend- 
ship. 


106 


BOSE-DE-NOEL. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

PRIVATE ROOMS. 

On the Sunday that little Bee was to sit for the first time, 
Petrus was waiting in the atelier at eight o’clock in the morn- 
ing, although his visitors could not arrive until noon. 

At ten, he sent to the captain to know if he would break- 
fast with him. 

But Jean returned to say, with a little discreet air, that the 
captain had not come in the previous night. 

Petrus was pleased to hear this, as he was dnwilling to run 
the risk of Regina’s seeing the captain. 

If natures like Ludovic’s, like Jean Robert’s, like his own,^ 
in fact, felt at times a certain repugnance for this man, what 
would be the feelings of this aristocratic Regina? 

It seemed to him now, that he should prefer to tell her that 
he was ruined and obliged to sell big furniture rather than 
avow that he had beconie the heir to four millions bequeathed 
by such a godfather. He, therefore, bade the servant say to 
the captain, when he came in, that he was busy with a sitter. 
These precautions taken, he breakfasted with his eyes fixed 
on the clock. 

At eleven, he set his palette with excessive care, and as 
slowly as possible. 

At half past eleven, he began to trace his composition with 
chalk on the canvas. At noon a carriage stopped at the door. 
P6trus laid down his palette, and ran to the top of the stairs. 

On this first day, he was favored by fortune. Regina was 
alone with little Bee. 

We have already said that Regina had selected a Sunday 
.for this first sitting, as she thought it more than likely that 
the Marquise de la Tournelle would not stay away from high 
mass at her parish church, Saint-Gerrnain-des-Pres. 

Regina, this time at least, had come alone with little Bee. 

The child ran to her friend Petrus with eager arms, for 
it was long since she bad seen him. 

Regina extended her hapd to the painter. Petrus took the 
hand, and, pushing aside with his lips the hanging lace from 
the sleeve, .kissed the beautiful arm above the glove, with a 
quiet passion that made itself felt. 

Then he showed her that all preparations were made. 


ROSE-DE-^q-OEL. 


107 


Eegina admired the sketch, and little Bee Was delighted 
Trith the flowers, which were all about the room, for Petrus 
had early in the morning ordered in quantities from the vari- 
ous hot-houses. 

The sitting beg^n. 

To paint Regina’s portrait would have been an unspeakable 
happiness. To paint little Bee’s was intoxication. For the 
first, Regina would have been the model; for the second, she 
was the counselor. 

This title gave her an excuse, indeed a right to approach 
Petrus, and, leaning over his. shoulder, disappear with him 
beliind the canvas. In this brief moment Regina’s eyes met 
his with tenderness in their depths, and he felt on his cheek 
that breath which, had he been dying, would have brought 
him back to life, and now that he was living, transported him 
to heaven. 

When her advice was given, Petrus returned to his work 
with a trembling hand, and with eyes fixed on Regina, rather 
than on Bee. It was not necessary for him to look at the 
cnild, he could have painted her portrait with his eyes shut. 

It was necessary to say something — not that these young 
people recognized this necessity, they could have looked and 
sighed eternally, and looks and sighs would have said more 
than words. 

And yet, it was essential that they should talk. Petrus 
related the disappearance of Rose-de-Noel, Ludovic’s despair, 
Salvator’s promise, and the strange oath sworn by Ludovic to 
marry the child. 

In her turn Regina told how Carmelite had sung at her 
house to M. Sosthene de la Rochefoucauld, who had become so 
enthusiastic over her that he had arranged for her dehut at 
the Opera. 

Then Petrus asked news of Mme. de Marande, and was 
told that she was the happiest woman in the world. It was 
true that M. de Marande committed a thousand follies for a 
new mistress, but he was at the same time so considerate for 
his wife, and left her so entirely free, that, of course, she 
must feel for him the most profound gratitude. 

Regina went on to say that the banker’s business prospered 
wonderfully — he was about going to London to effect with 
Spain a loan of sixty millions, and it was evident that in 
event of the Liberals coming in, he would be made Minister. 

Then Regina asked about Fragola, whom she saw very 
rarely. To see her, it was necessary that her friends shoulj 
seek her, and from these visits they always returned with 


108 


KOSE-DE-NOEL. 


smiling faces and tranquil hearts, like Undines who have been 
looking in the tranquil depths of a clear lake. 

P6trus heard of Regina constantly from Salvator, and it 
was therefore not astonishing that Regina should hear some- 
thing of her friend from him. 

As may readily be imagined, time passed very quickly in 
this way. 

To paint a lovely child, to gaze at a woman’s beauty, to ex- 
change smiles with this child and with this woman, looks and 
words were so absorbing that both started when the clock 
struck. 

Four o’clock!” she cried. 

The two looked at each other. It seemed to them that 
they had been together not more than twenty minutes; it was 
necessary that they should part. 

An appointment was made for the next day but one, and 
on Monday Regina promised to give Petrus an hour in the 
hot-house of the Boulevard des Invalides. 

Regina left with Bee. 

Petrus watched them down the stairs until they disap- 
peared, then he ran to the window to see them once more as 
they entered their carriage, which he followed with his eyes 
until it disappeared. He then closed the door and the win- 
dow of the studio, as if to shut in the gracious vision that 
graced it, as well as the perfume that still lingered there. 
He touched everything that Regina had touched, and finding 
her handkerchief, trimmed with Brussels lace, and which she 
had left either by accident or design, he hurried his face 
within it. 

He was thus occupied when the captain came in with a 
groat deal of noise. 

He had at last heard of a house which suited him — the 
next day the deeds would be .signed, and the following week 
he would have a grand house-warming. 

Petrus congratulated the captain. 

It seems to me, my boy, that you are a little too glad to 
see me established elsewhere!” 

Not in the least! And to prove it, I want you to keep 
your rooms here to come to, from time to time.” 

‘‘By Jove! that is a good idea, and I won’t say no,” 
answered the captain, “ but only on one condition, which is, 
that I shall pay you rent and shall be permitted to fix the 
price.” 

This arrangement was finally accepted. 


ROSE-DE-KOEL. 


109 


The three friends were to dine together — Jean Robert and 
Ludovic arrived at five oVJock. Ludovic was very sad, for 
nothing had yet been heard of Rose-de-Noel. Salvator had 
been seen only at rare and brief intervals, and then merely to 
reassure Fragola, and prepare her for his continued absence, 
bidding her not to expect him for two or three days yet. 

In order to distract Ludovic, ki whom the captain pro- 
fessed to feel great interest — it was resolved that they should 
all go to Saint-Cloud to dine. 

Ladovjc and Petrus would drive in the coup6, Jean Robert 
and the captain on horseback. They all started at six o’clock, 
and at a quarter to seven, the party were seated in a room at 
Legriel’s. 

There was, apparently, a very gay party in the private room 
next theirs, for they heard shouts of laughter from time to 
tirne. In the beginning, the new-comers were comparatively 
quiet, for they were hungry, and the clatter of spoons ‘ and 
forks was louder than the voices. 

But soon Ludovic listened more attentively, and was there- 
fore the most silent of the three young men. 

Hark!” said he, ^*I think I recognize a- voice in the next 
room — if I am not mistaken, I know two of the voices.” 

‘‘ Is it the charming Rose-de-Noel, whom you hear?” asked 
the captain. 

‘‘Unfortunately not,” answered Ludovic, with a sigh; “it 
is a gayer voice and not so sweet.” 

“ Who is it?” said Petrus. 

A shout of laughter running over every note of the gamut 
seemed to fill bo"ch rooms, for they were divided simply by 
panels covered with paper pasted on cloth, which could be re- 
moved when it was desirable to make one large room of these 
two smaller ones. 

“That is an honest laugh, at all events,” said Jean Robert. 

“ You are right there, dear friend ; for the two women in 
the next room are the Princesse de Vanvres and the Comtesse 
dll Battoir.” 

“ Chante-Lilas?” exclaimed the two friends. 

“ Chante-Lilas herself. Listen a moment!” 

“Gentlemen,” said Jean Robert, who seemed somewhat 
embarrassed, “is it altogether the thing to listen in this 
way?” 

“ I should think,” answered Petrus, “ when they talk loud 
enough for us to hear, that those who speak have no secrets.” 

“You are right, my boy,” said Pierre Berthaut, “and I 


no 


IlOSE-I)1i:-NOEL. 


hold a theory precisely like yours on that point. But it 
seems to me that I hear a maids voice as well as those of two 
women.” 

'‘You surely know, my dear captain,” exclaimed Jean 
Robert, "that every voice has its echo. Only, generally 
speaking, the echo of a feminine voice is a masculine one, 
while the echo of a masculine voice is a woman’s.” 

" As 5"ou so readily recognize voices,” said P 6 tras to Ludo- 
vic, " you may possibly tell us who the man is.” 

"It seems to me that I could name him,” answered Ludo- 
vic, "without the smallest difficulty; but, if you listen a 
moment, I think you can tell for yourself.” 

The young men sat in silence. 

" Permit me to contradict yon. Princess,” with the utmost 
politeness, said the voice. 

"But when I swear that it is the truth, nothing but the 
truth 1 ” 

" It matters little to me if it is true, wffien the truth is so 
unlikely. Tell me a credible falsehood, and I am content.” 

"Ask Paquerette, and you will see.” 

" Upon my word! Sophie Arnould answering for Madame 
du Barry; the Comtesse du Batton answering for the Prin- 
cesse de Vanvres; Paquerette for Chante-Lilas!” 

"You hear?” said Ludovic. 

"I have a good reason this time,” continued the voice. 
"Your hotel in the Rue de la Bruyere, your four bay horses, 
and your two cherry-colored jockeys, all tell the same story.” 

" Don’t speak of it. I think he intends to have me 
crowned.” 

"No, indeed; he reserves that for the wedding-day.” 

"Simpleton! Isn’t he married?” 

"Pie upon you, Princess, to have an affair with a married 
man !” 

" What are you, pray?” 

"But I am so little married; and then, too, we are not 
living together!” 

" No; we only dine together; that is all.” 

" Oh! Monsieur Camille, you would have done better had 
you married that poor OarmMite, or rather, to have written 
to her that you loved her no more. She would have married 
Monsieur Colomban then, and to-day would not be wearing 
deep black.” 

Chante-Lilas uttered a deep sigh. 

" But who the deuce could have expected such non56Tise?’^ 


ROSE-DE-KOEL. . Ill 

asked the creole, indifferently. A man makes love to a 
woman, but he is not obliged to marry her on that account!” 

‘‘ Monsters!” exclaimed the Comtesse du Battoir. 

Carmelite and you, Chan te- Lilas- ” b^gan the young 

inan. 

Oh! Monsieur Camille, do not speak of us in the same 
breath. Mademoiselle Carmelite is an honest woman.” 

‘‘And you, pray; what are you?” 

‘‘ Only a good-natured creature.” 

“ You are right. A good-natured, excellent creature. But 
you know that Solomon said that there are in this world three 
things that leave no trace: the flight of a bird in the air, the 
passage of a serpent over a stone, and — the ” 

“I know,” interrupted Chante-Lilas, “ that with all your 
wit yon are an idiot. Monsieur Camille de Eozan, and that I 
love my banker a thousand times better tlian you, although 
he has given me a hundred thousand francs, and you have 
given me nothing.” 

“Given you nothing, you ungrateful little vixen! And my 
heart; how do you estimate that?” 

“ Oh! your heart,” said Chante-Lilas, rising, and pushing 
back her chair — “your heart reminds me of that chicken of 
cardboard which I saw served the other day at the Porte- 
Saint-Martin — it is used at all representations, but no one 
has yet cut it. Will you see if my carriage is ready?” 

Camille rang. 

The waiter appeared. 

“ The bill first,” said the creole, “ and then inquire if the 
carriage of Madame la Princesse is ready.” 

“ It stands at the door.” 

“ Will you take me back to Paris, Princess?” 

“ And why not?” 

“What would your banker say?” 

“My banker allows me every liberty. Besides, at this 
hour, he must be on his way to England.” 

“ Then you can take this opportunity to show me your 
hotel in the Rue de la Bruy ere.” 

“ With pleasure.” 

“ I hope, dear Comtesse du Battoir,” said Camille, “ that 
all this will raise your spirits and inspire you with hope.” 

“Alas!” sighed Paquerette, “are, there two Marandes in 
this world?” 

“ Good heavens!” exclaimed Petrus and Ludovic together, 
“ is it De Marande who is commitiing all these follies for the 
Princesse de Yanvrcs? Is this true^ Jean Rdbert?” 


113 


ROSE DE-Js OEL. 

I did not wish to name him/’ answered Jean Eobert, 
laughing, but as Pdquerette has been guilty of this indiscre- 
tion, I consider myself justified in saying that I have heard 
the same thing from a person who ought to be well informed.” 

At this moment the Princesse de Vanvres, in a dazzling 
toilet, passed in front of the door, leaning on the arm of 
Camille de Eozan, and followed by Paquerette, the passage 
not being large enough to permit the voluminous robes of the 
two women to go out side by side. 


CHAPTER XX. 

CATASTROPHE, 

The next evening at ten o’clock, in the hope that the 
promise made by Regina would be kept, Petrus was concealed 
behind the largest tree on’ the Boulevard des Invalides, which 
fortunately happened to be very near the small gate of the 
hotel of the Marechal de Lamothe-Houdan. 

At live minutes phst ten the door opened softly, and old 
Xanon appeared. 

Petrus slipped into the wide linden avenue. 

“Well!” cried the old nurse, “ are you soin^ off in 
that way?” 

“To the ro7id -point , is it not? Is she not there?” 

“ Go on; you will meet her long before you reach that place.” 

And in truth, before Petrus was at the foot of the avenue, 
his arm was around Regina’s waist. 

“ Oh! how sweet you are!” he whispered. “ How kind you 
are, dear Regina, in keeping your promise thus. I thank you 
and adore you !” 

“But,” said Regina, as she laid her lovely hand on his 
mouth, “you need not make so much noise.” 

Petrus kissed the hand passionately. 

“ What is the matter with you, to-night?” said Regina. 

“ I am drunk with love— drunk with love of you, Regina. 
I am happy in the thought that for a month I am to see you 
every other day.” 

“ Not every other day.” 

“ As often as possible, Regina. You asked me what the 
matter was.” 

“Yes.” 

‘ I ani^ afraid I am trembling. While waiting at the 

gate———' 


EOSE-DE-JTOEL. 


113 


You did not wait long?’’ 

“ Xo, and I tliank you with all my heart, Eegina. But 
in those few minutes 1 trembled from head to foot.” 

‘‘ Poor friend!” 

“ I said to myself, ‘I shall find her in tears; she will say 
to me, “Impossible, Petrus, I only received you to-night to 
tell you that I could not see you to-morrow.”’ ” 

“ You see, friend, that instead of tears, you find smiles; 
instead of saying ‘I will not see you to-morrow,’ I say, ‘to- 
morrow, at noon, I will be with you.’ Only this time I shall 
not be alone with little Bee. My aunt will be with us, but 
she cannot see without' her sj^ectacles. And she is still so 
coquettish that she will not wear them except when com- 
pelled by stern necessity. My aunt also sleeps at times, and 
when she sleeps she sees even less than when she is without 
her spectacles. But even to lie there with her to guard every 
look, word, and movement, is surely better than not to see 
3^00 at all.” 

“Ah! Regina, do not make use of such words; it racks 
my soul, for I am continually haunted with the fear that a 
time may come when I shall see you no more.” 

Regina shrugged her shoulders. 

“See me no more!” she answered, “and what earthly 
power could prevent me from seeing you? This man? But 
you well know that I have nothing to fear from him. The 
Marshal, the Marshal alone is to be feared — if he should 
discover our love. But who is there to tell him? No one; 
and if there were, I would lie — I would tell him that there 
was no truth in the slander. It would be very hard to say 
that I did not love yon, and I doubt my having courage for 
that!” 

“ Dear Regina! And is nothing changed at the Embassy?” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ He goes at the end of this week?” 

“ He is at the Tuileries, to receive his last instructions. If 
it were not so dull a matter, I would repeat a conversation 
that I heard between my father and Monsieur Rappt. But I 
detest politics.” 

“Tell me, Regina; politics have become deeply interesting 
to me since I have found that my seeing you is dependent 
upon them.” 

“ A new^ ministry is near at hand.” 

“Ah! This explains the absence of my friend Salvator,” 
said Petrus, gravely? he is busy in this matter.” " 


114 


ROSE-DE-iyOEL. 


“I beg your pardon.” , 

Never mind, K6gina, go on.” 

^‘The new cabinet consists of Monsieur de Martignac, 
Monsieur Portalis, Monsieur de Caux, and Monsieur Eoy. 
Monsieur de Marande was offered the Ministry of Finance, 
but he declined it. Then there is Monsieur de la Ferronnays, 
and perhaps mv father; but my father does not care to belong 
to a transitional cabinet, as he calls it.” 

‘‘Go on, Eegina. How charming politics may become I 
now learn for the first time. Goon; lam listening.” 

“ Monsieur de Chateaubriand, who was in disgrace on ac- 
count. of a letter written hy him to the King, three days be- 
fore the famous review of the National Guard, where they 
cried ‘ Down with the Ministers!’ and who retired to Rome, 
is to receive his credentials as Embassador there. In short, 
there is to be, it is said, an entire change in politics.” 

“ And you, dear Regina, what are you to do?” 

“ I am made guardian of the Hotel du Boulevard des In- 
valides, while my father probably is to be made Governor of 
the Tuileries, and Monsieur Rappt is named Envoy Extraor- 
dinary to his Majesty Nicholas 1.” 

> “ That is precisely what I feared.” 

“It is necessary to withdraw somewhat from the^ English 
alliance and to strengthen that of Russia. This the Marshal 
proposes to do. The Rhine provinces will be taken, and 
Prussia will be indemnified at the expense of England. Do 
you see all this?” 

“ I am stunned. How can all this wisdom be contained in 
this charming head? If you do not permit me to kiss your 
brow, Regina, I shall think it is because of the wrinkles 
upon it.” 

Regina threw back her head in order that Petrus might be 
quite sure that she had not suddenly grown fifty years older. 
Petrus pressed a kiss, not only upon the brow, but also upon 
tlie pearly lids. Something like a sigh was heard from the 
young man. Regina drew back hastily. She had felt his 
breath on her lips. Petrus looked at her entreatingly, and 
she herself placed her arm around his neck. 

“ Then,” murmured Potrns, “ he will go at the end of the 
week, and you will be free?” 

“ Yes, my friend.” 

“ Alas! the end of the week is still far away, and between 
now and then some terrible misfortune may befall us.” 

And the young man, as if overwhelmed by a terrible pre- 


ROSE-DE-NOEL, 


115 


sentiment, sunk upon a bank of turf, drawing Regina to a 
seat at his side. 

Regina's head found the young man’s shoulder. She lifted 
it once, but a reproachful murmur from Petrus induced her 
to replace it. . 

They were so happy that the time flew without either per- 
ceiving it. 

Suddenly the roll of a carriage was heard. 

Regina lifted her head to listen. ' 

The coachman was heard calling for the gate to be opened, 
and the lovers heard the carriage roll into the courtyard. 

There they are,” said Regina; 1 must go; my father 
will ask for me. To-morrow, then, dear Petrus. 

Would that I could remain here until to-morrow,” mur- 
mured Petrus; am haunted by a presentiment of evil.” 

Child!” and Regina lifted her forehead to Petrus, who 
touched it gently with his lips. 

Regina glided down a dark path, throwing after her as she 
went the consolatory words: 

“To-morrow I will see you!” 

“ To-morrow!” repeated Petrus, sadly, as if it were a promise 
of misfortune rather than of hope. 

Five minutes later Petrus heard steps coming toward him, 
and a voice called him very softly. It wasNanon. 

“ The little gate is open,” she said. 

“ Yes, Nanon, I know,” answered P6trtis, tearing himself 
away with difficulty from the place consecrated by so many 
tender memories. He passed through the gate without being 
seen, and gained his carriage, which was awaiting him at 
sonr.e little distance. 

As he entered the house he asked if the captain had made 
his appearance. 

“Yes, he had come in about ten, and asked where the 
young artist was, and being informed that he was out, waited 
in the studio for more than an hour, and at half past eleven, 
finding that Petrus still delayed, he had gone to his own 
rooms. 

“Petrus, restless with a vague anxiety, went down and 
knocked at the captain’s door. 

There was no answer. Petrus turned the handle, but the 
door was locked. 

He knocked again — the same silence. 

The captain was either sound asleep or he had gone out, 
and Petrus went back to his studio. Indications of the re- 


116 


ROSE-DE-KOEL. 


cent presence of tlie captain abounded: the lamp was burning, 
a volume of Malebranche lay open on the table. 

Petrus at last went to his chamber. He was stifling, and 
threw open the window to breathe fresh air. This somewhat 
calmed him, and at last he threw himself on the bed. 

Sleep was long in coming, and when it came it was rest- 
less and interrupted. About five o’clock, however, he was 
conquered by fatigue, and he slept soundly. 

At seven there was a knock at his door. 

He started up. 

What is it, Jean?” he asked. 

A lady, sir — a lady closely veiled wishes to see you as 
soon as possible.” 

^^Toseeme?” 

^‘Yes, sir.” 

‘^Do you know her?” 

She did not give her name, sir, but I am very sure.” 

Weill what are you sure of?” 

That she is Madame la Princesse, sir.” 

^^Hegina!” cried Petrus, leaping from his bed and throw- 
ing on his clothing — Regina, here, at this hour! Some 
terrible thing must have happened. Oh! I knew it! I Avas 
sure of it!” 

‘‘ Ask the lady to -walk up,” he said. I will see her in the 
studio.” 

“ Oh! my God! what can this mean?” murmured Petrus, 
nearly mad. 

The' lady appeared, the servant behind her. The man 
was right, it was Regina. 

You can go,” said Petrus to the man. 

Jean obeyed and closed the door carefully. 

Regina!” cried Petrus, rushing to meet the veiled form. 

Is this really you?” 

Regina, for it was she, threw back her veil. 

“ Yes, Petrus, it is L” 

P6crus drew back in horror when he saw the face before 
him, its pallor was so great that it was hardly recognizable a» 
that of the Comtesse Rappt. 

What could have happened? 


’ ' 'A 


EOSE-DE-KOEL. 


IIT 


CHAPTER XXL 

KOME. 

Our readers would like — at least we hope they would — to 
have us postpone for a few minutes the explanation which 
was about to take place between Petrus and Regiiia, and fol- 
low one of the heroes of this book — a hero who has been long 
deserted, and in whom we are sure they feel some interest. 
As it is impossible for us to follow him across the Alps and 
along the Apennines, we will suppose that six weeks have 
elapsed since Brother Dominique left Fontainebleau, and that 
he had then been a week in Rome; that either by accident 
or by previous precautions taken by his enemies, he had 
found it impossible to obtain^ an audience from the Pope 
Leo XIL, and finally in despair, he determined to make use 
of the letter with which he had been furnished by Salvator. 
The reader will accompany us into the courtyard of the 
Colonna Palace, situated on the Via dei Santi-Apostoli; he 
will ascend to the piano nobile, that is to the first floor; 
he will then, thanks to the privileges enjoyed by the novel- 
writer, glide through the half-open door and find himself in 
the presence of the French Embassador. The cabinet is 
very simple, papered in green, and with damask curtains and 
furniture of the same color. 

The only ornament in this room is a magnificent portrait 
of the King of France, Charles X. Around the room, and 
against the walls are torses, both male and female, muti- 
lated columns, and a woman’s arm; there is also an enormous 
block of white marble, and just opposite the writing-table 
the model of a tomb. 

On this tomb, exquisite in its simplicity, stands a bust of 
Poussin. 

The bass-relief represents the shepherds of Arcadia, and 
beneath the bass-relief is this inscription: 

A NICOLAS POUSSIN 
POUR LA GLOIRE DES ARTS 
ET l’HONNEUR DE LA FRANCE. 

F.-R. DE Ch. 

At the desk, a man is sitting writing a dispatch in a flow- 
ing legible hand. This man is about sixty, his broad promi- 


m 


ROSE-DE-KOEL. 


nent forehead is shaded with gray hair, his black brows over- 
hang eyes that flash like lightning; the nose is long and 
slender, the month delicate, the chin firmly cut, the cheeks 
browned by travel and slightly marked by small-pox; while 
the whole'physiognomy is at once proud a-nd s\veet, every- 
thing indicates a man of high intelligence, with quick intui- 
tion, and rapid decisions. Poet or soldier, he belongs to the old 
French race. In fact, this man is the poet who wrote ‘‘ Rene,’’ 

Atala,” The Martyrs he is the statesman who published 
the pamphlet entitled Bonaparte and the Bourbons,” the 
man who criticised the celebrated order of the 15th of Septem^ 
her in a pamphlet. He is the minister who, in 1823, declared 
war with Spain, the diplomate who represented France suc- 
cessively, at Berlin and London: it is in short the Vicomte 
Franqois-Rene de Chateaubriand, Embassador to Rome. 

His family is as old as any in France. 

Up to the thirteenth century his ancestors’ arms were 
peacock’s plumes, but after the ^battle of Mansourah, Geof- 
froy, the fourth of his name, who bore the banner of France 
before Saint Louis, having wrapped himself in the flag rather 
than surrender it, and receiving consequently several wounds 
that tore both banner and flesh, Saint Louis granted him the. 
privilege of ornamenting his shield with fleurs-de-lis and 
with this device: My blood has stained the flag of France.” 

This man, the great lord and greatest poet in France, had 
been placed near the monarchy like the prophet of whom 
the historian Josephus tells us, who for seven days 
wandered around the walls of Jerusalem, crying, ^MVoe unto 
thee, 0 Jerusalem!” and who, on the next day, cried, Woe 
unto me!” and then was cut in two by a stone. 

The monarchy hated him, as it hated all who were just 
and told the truth, and sent him far away with the air of 
conferring a compliment and recompensing him for his devo- 
tion. He was oFered the Embassy to Rome, and, not being 
able to resist the ruins, accepted the position. 

What was he doing in Rome? 

He was watching the ebbing life of Leo XII. 

He was writing to Mme. R^camier— the Beatrice of this 
Dant5, the Leonora of this poet. 

He is building a monument to Poussin. 

Desprez will make the bass relief, and Lemoyne the bust. 

In leisure moments he makes researches at Torre-Vergata, 
not with money belonging to the Government, but with his 
own, and the antiquities that you see in his room are the 
product of his investigations. 


KOSE-DE-HOEL. 


119 


He is as liappy as a child. Only the day before he had 
found a superb block of marble large enough for the bust of 
Poussin. 

It was while rejoicing over this that the door opened. He 
lifted his head, and said to the servant standing near the door: 

Who is it, Gaetano?” 

‘‘ It is a French monk, your Excellency, who has walked 
from Paris to Rome, and who wishes to speak to you, he says, 
on important business.” 

“ A monk!” repeated the astonished Embassador, ‘^and of 
what order?” 

. “ Dominican.” 

‘‘ Let him come in.” And the Minister rose as he spoke. 

He had, like all great natures, a profound respect for sacred 
things and for men of religion. 

Then it could be seen that he was short of stature, and 
that his head was too large for his body, and that, like all 
descendants of warlike races whose ancestors have worn a 
helmet too much, his head was thrown a little too much for- 
ward. 

When the monk entered, he found the Minister waiting to 
receive him. It was only necessary for the two men to ex- 
change one look to know each other, of, rather, to recognize 
in each other a kindred spirit. 

Certain hearts and certain minds are of the same family; 
whenever they meet they recognize each other. 

The elder of the two extended his hand. 

The younger bowed low. 

Then the elder said to the younger, with profound respect: 

Come in, my father.” 

Brother Dominique entered. The Embassador made a 
little sign to the servant, who went out and closed the door, 
and took care that no one should interrupt the interview 
between the priest and the Minister. 

The monk to.ok from his breast a letter, which he handed 
to M. Chateaubriand, who had no sooner glanced at it than 
he recognized his own writing. 

‘‘A letter from myself!” he exclaimed. 

I certainly could not find a better introduction, your Ex- 
cellency,” answered the monk. 

To my friend Valgeneuse! How did you become possessed 
of this letter, father?” 

^‘I received it from his son, your Excellency.” 

^^From liis son?” the Embassador exclaimed. ‘‘Do you 
mean from Conrad.” - - 


120 


EOSE-Ofe-NOEL. 


The monk made a sign of assent. i i.* 

Poor fellow,” said the Minister, sadly. I 
when he was young, handsome, and full of hope. His death 

was very sad.” , , , , * j j -u 4. 

Like every one else, )^ou believe that he is dead, but to 
you, his father’s friend, I can say he Js not dead; he lives, 
and sends his most respectful regards.” 

The Embassador seernCd to be stunned at these words; he 
wondered if the monk was in full possession of his senses. 

Dominique understood him, and smiled sadly. 

“I am not mad,” he said. ‘‘Fear nothing, and, above 
all, doubt nothing. You, a man who is initiated in all the 
mysteries of life, you, surely, ought to know that reality far 
exceeds fiction.” 

“ Conrad lives?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And what is he doing?” 

“ Ah! That is not my secret; it is his, your Excellency.” 

“ Whatever he does must be good — must be great. His 
was a great heart. But tell me how and why you have 
brought this letter to me. What do you wish? What can I 
do for you?” 

“And your Excellency asks me this question without 
knowing who I am.” 

“You are a man, you are a priest, you are my brother, 
you come from God — I need ask no moi'e.” 

“ Yes, but I ought to tell you. It is possible that I may 
do you harm, that I am fatal to whomsoever may touch me.” 

“ Father, do you remember the Cid to whom Saint Martin, 
in the rags of a poor leper, called from the bottom of a ditch, 
saying: ‘ My lord, take pity on a poor leper who has fallen 
into this ditch from whence he cannot climb without assist- 
ance. Give him your hand; you run no risk under your iron 
gauntlet.’ The Cid dismounted, and, drawing off his 
gauntlet, said: ‘I trust in God, and give you my naked 
hand.’ He did so, and the poor leper was transformed into 
the saint who guided him to the life eternal. Here is my 
hand, father; when any one wishes to keep me out of dan- 
ger, it is not wise to point out where the danger lies.” 

The monk kept his hand concealed in the sleeve of his 
gown. 

“Your Excellency,” he said, “I am' the son of a m£^u 
whose name you have often heard.” 

What is this name?” _ 


ROSK-l^E-KOEL. 131 

I am the son of Sarranti, who was condemned to death 
two months since by the Cou^^t of Assizes.’’ 

The Embassador unconsciously drew back. 

The monk continued: 

“ A man may be condemned to death/ and yet be innocent.” 

“It was for robbery followed by assassination,” murmured 
the Embassador. 

“ Do you remember Galas? Do you remember Lesurques? 
Be not then more severe, or, at least, more incredulous thaa 
the King Charles X.” 

“ The King!” 

“ Yes; when I threw myself at his feet, when I said to 
him: ‘Sire, I need three months to prove my father’s inno- 
cence;’ he replied that I should have that time, and not a 
hair should fall from that father’s head before the three 
months had elapsed; and I went forth. Now I stand before 
your Excellency, to whom I say: ‘I swear on the sanctity of 
my robe, on the blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, which'was 
shed for us; I swear that my father is innocent, and that I 
hold the proof of his innocence here.” 

The monk struck his breast. 

“Do you mean?” cried the Minister, “that you can prove 
your father’s innocence, and yet refrain from doing so?” 

The monk shook his head. 

“ I cannot,” he said. 

“ And what prevents you?” 

“ My duty, and the robe I wear; the iron seal of confession 
is placed on my lips by the hand of Fate.” 

“But you must see his Holiness; you must see the Pope, 
the successor of Saint Peter, who himself received the right 
to bind and to unloose.” 

“Ah!” cried the young monk, with his face irradiated 
with joy, “ it was for this that I came to Eome, it was for 
this that I am here in your palace. For a whole week ob- 
stacles have multiplied in my path. I have been refused 
admittance to the Vatican, and yet time is rapidly passing; 
the sword hangs over my father’s head. Each minute brings 
it closer to him; powerful enemies desire his death. I prom- 
ised to apply to your Excellency only in the last emergency, 
but that moment has arrived; behold me on my knees before 
you, as I was on my knees before the King whom you repre- 
sent. I must see his Holiness without delay, or, as you must 
see, it will be impossible, do what I will, not to arrive too 
late.” 


R0SE-DE-2^0EL. 


123 

"‘In thirty minutes, father, you shall be in the presence 
of his Holiness.” 

The Embassador rang. 

The usher appeared. 

“ Let them put the horses to the carriage,” he said, ‘'and 
send my valet to my dressing-room.” Then turning to the 
monk, he added: “I must put on my embassador’s dress; 
wait here for me, father.” 

Ten minutes later, the monk and the Embassador crossed 
the Pont Saint'Ange, and rolled toward the Place Saint- 
Pierre.” 


CHAPTER XXIL 
SAINT Peter’s successor. 

Leo XIL, Annibal della Genga, born near Spoleto, 
August 17th, 1760, elected Pope, September 28th, 1823, had 
now occupied the Papal throne nearly five years. 

He was, at the time of which we write, sixty-eight years 
of age, tall, thin, with a severe but melancholy expression; 
spending much of his time in a dreary room that was almost 
destitute of furniture; he and his cat, his constant compan- 
ion, lived almost entirely on polenta. He was conscious of 
his failing health, and almost rejoiced over it. He .had re- 
ceived the viaticum twenty-two times, that is to say, he had 
been in danger of death twenty-two times, and was often dis- 
posed to keep, like Benedict XIII., his coffin under his bed. 

Annibal della Genga had been nominated by his colleague, 
Cardinal Severoli, who, having lost the Pontifical chair by 
the exclusion of Austria, indicated him as his successor. 

At the moment when thirty-four votes made him Pope, 
and wlien the cardinals who had elected him were offering him 
felicitations, he raised his purple robes and showed to the 
electors his swollen limbs. 

“ How can you think,” ho cried, “that I will willingly as- 
sume the burden that you wish to impose upon me? It is 
too heavy by far. What will become of the Cliurch when its 
interests are confided to the care of an infirm and dying Pope?” 

It was, however, precisely because he was dying and in- 
firm that he was thus exalted. A new pope was elected on 
condition that he would die as soon as possible. Not one oi 
the two hupdred and fifty-four successors of Saint Peter at- 
tained the age of the prince of apostles — that is to say, none 
of them, as yet, have been po])es twenty-five years. 


123 


ROSE-DE-NOEL. 

Non videbis annos Petri!"’ Such is the proverb, or rather 
the prediction, with which the election of each new pope is 
greeted. 

And, in assuming the name of Leo XIL, Ahnibal della 
Genga seemed to have assumed u double engagement to die 
speedily. 

The Florentine Leo XI., elected in 1605, had reigned 
but twenty-seven days. 

And now this frail-looking man seemed to have received 
from Saint Paul the sword of the Church. 

He made a terrible war on the brigands, and removed all 
the inhabitants from one village to transport them to his na- 
tive town, Spoleto. These peasants were suspected of hold- 
ing relations with the bandits, and possibly of being bandits 
themselves. 

From this time they were no more heard of; it was as if 
they had been transported to Botany Bay. 

Then, too, he had been equally severe in prohibiting 
spectacles, and all other amusements, during the jubilee year. 
He had made a desert of Rome. 

Now the Romans of the city have but one resource — the 
rent of their houses. 

The Romans of the mountains have but one commerce — 
their relations with the bandits. 

The result was, consequently, that Pope Leo XIL, hav- 
ing ruined the Romans of Rome and the Romans of the 
mountains, was execrated by the inhabitants of both city and 
country. 

At his death, two inhabitants of Ostie, who had committed 
the crime of manifesting their sympathy for the defunct, 
were murdered. 

When young, it had been predicted by an astrologer that 
he would be pope some day. It was in consequence of this 
prediction that his family insisted on his taking orders. 

What was the incident that gave rise to this prediction? 

A fact so strange that it is almost incredible. 

The children at the college at Spoleto determined, un- 
known to their teachers, to march in a procession, carrying on 
a platform' the statue of the Madonna. 

The little Marquis de Genga, as Annibal was called — his 
ancestors having received the title of marquis and the accom- 
panying estate from the hand of Leo X. — was chosen to 
take the part of the Madonna, he being considered the most 
beautiful of all tlie children. 

Suddenly they heard a professor approaching. The pupils 


KOSE-DE-NOEL. 


ik 

who bore the platform took to flight, and the Virgin slipped 
from their shoulders with the platform. 

A sorcere/ predicted that the child who had thus fallen 
from the shoulders of his companions while acting the part 
of the Madonna, would some day be pope. 

Fifty years later, when the sorcerer had been long in his 
grave, the prophecy was fulfilled. 

The beauty which had gained for the child the honor of 
representing the Virgin, had, it was rumored, more than once 
imperiled the soul of the priest. It was rumored that two 
grand passions had entered his life and marred its purity — 
one for a noble Koman lady, the other for a fair Bavarian. . 

When he was informed that the Embassador of France 
awaited his pleasure, he was shooting birds in the gardens of 
the Vatican. 

This was his only amusement; all other passions he had 
conquered. The Zelanti looked on this as a crime. 

Leo XII. was especially fond of M. de Chateaubriand. 

When his visit was announced, the Pope at once handed to 
his valet the gun which he had been using, and gave orders 
that his illustrious visitor should be at once shown to his 
cabinet, which the Pope sought with all possible speed. 

The Embassador, in the meantime, was approaching the 
same cabinet by a long, dark corridor. 

When, therefore, the Embassador, with the priest, reached 
the threshold of this room, he f^und the Pope seated and 
awaiting him. 

He. rose and went to meet the poet, who, as was customary, 
bent one knee to the ground, without remembering the great 
power which he represented. 

But Leo XII. lifted him instantly, not allowing him to 
remain a moment in this humble posture, and taking his 
hand led him to the sofa; but the Pope permitted Dominique 
to kiss the hem of his robe, and to remain on his knees. 

M. de Chateaubriand started to his feet, however, almost 
as soon as he was seated. 

Holy Father!” he exclaimed, ‘^permit me to withdraw. 
I have brought you this young man, who has come to ask his 
father’s life at your hands. He' has come four hundred 
leagues, on foot, to see you, and must similarly accomplish 
his return. He comes to you full of hope, and "according to 
your yes or no, his departure will be full of joy or of sorrow.” 

Then, turning toward the young monk who was still upon 
his knees, he said : 

*‘ .Be of good cheer, father, I leave you with one who is as 


'E0S»1>E-N0EL. 


126 


much above kings, askings are above the poor mendicant 
who asked alms from us at the door of the Vatican.” 

And are you g-oing away?” asked the priest, almost terri- 
fied at being thus abandoned to his own resources. “Shall 
1 not see you again?” 

“ Most assuredly,” answered Dominique’s patron. “ I feel 
too great an interest in you to desert you in that way. With 
the permission of his Holiness, I will await you in the Stanze. 
Do not be concerned in regard to detaining me. I shall for- 
get the lapse of time in the contemplation of the work of him 
who vanquished it.” 

The Pope extended his hand, and, in spite of his resistance, 
it was kissed by the Embassador. 

Then De Chateaubriand left the apartment, and the highest 
and the lowest on the ladder of religion were left alone 
together. 

Moses was not paler when he found himself on Mount 
Sinai, blinded by the rays of divine glory, than was Domi- 
nique, the monk, when he found himself alone with Leo 
XJI. 

The Pope saw that the handsome young priest was about t® 
faint. 

He extended his hand. 

“ Courage, my son!” said his Holiness. “ Whatever may 
be the error or the crime that you have committed, the mercy 
of God is greater than all human wickedness.” 

“I am a sinner, Holy Father, because I am a man; but if 
not without gin, I am sure of being innocent of any crime.” 

“Your illustrious patron, I remember, said that you had 
come in behalf of your father.” 

“ Yes, your Holiness; it is for my father that I am here.” 

Where is your father?” 

“In France — in Paris.” . 

“What is he doing?” 

'“Awaiting that death to which he has been condemned by 
the wickedness of men.” 

“My son, we must not look upon our judges as our ene- 
mies. God will judge them in their turn.” 

“In the meantime my father is innocent, and yet he is to 
die!” 

“The King of France is a good man, and a religious one, 
my son. Why have you not applied to him?” 

“I did; and he has done for me all that was in his power 
to do. He postponed the execution of the sentence for three 


m 


BOSE-DE-KOEL. 


months, in which time I promised to go to Home from Paris, 
and back to Paris from Rome.” 

And for what have you come to Rome?” 

‘‘To see you, Most Holy Father — to throw myself at your 
feet.” 

“ But I have no power over the temporal lives of the sub- 
jects of the King Charles X. My power is only over their 
spiritual lives.” 

“It is not mercy that I ask, Holy Father, it is justice.” 

“ Of what is your father accused, my son?” 

“ Of robbery and assassination.” 

“And you say that he is innocent of these crimes?” 

“I know the robber — I know the assassin.” 

“ Why do you not reveal your terrible secret?” 

“It is not mine — it is Grod's — it is that of the confession.” 

And, sobbing convulsively, Dominique threw himself at 
the feet of the Pope, and struck the floor with his forehead. 

Leo XII. looked down on the young priest with profound 
commiseration. 

“And you have come to me, my son?” 

“ I have come to you — oh, Most Holy Father — to you, the 
Bishop of Rome — the Vicar of Christ — the servant of God; 
I have come to you to say, ought I to allow my father to die, 
when here, on my heart, as I lie at your feet, is the proof of 
my father^s innocence?” 

And with trembling Angers the monk drew from his breast 
the package containing the confession of M. Gerard, written 
by Gerard, signed by Gerard. 

This package was in a large envelope, and sealed. 

Then, still on his knees, with suppliant eyes and trembling 
lips, the priest awaited the reply of his judge. 

“ You say. my son,” replied the Pope, much moved, “that 
this confession was placed in your hands?” 

“By the criminal himself. Holy Father.” 

“And on what conditions?” 

The monk sighed heavily. 

“On what conditions?” repeated Leo XII. 

“ That It shall not be made public until after his death.” 

“Then await the death of this criminal, my son.” 

“But my father — my father!” 

The Pope was silent. 

“My father will die,” sobbed the monk, “and my father 
ia innocent!” 

“My son,” answered the Pope, slowly but firmly — “my 
son, an innocent man must perish, teirinnocent men per- 


ROSE-DE-XOEL. 127 

ish, rather than that a dogma of the Church should be 
shaken.” 

Dominique rose from his knees. Despair was in his heart, 
but his face was strangely calm. His lips quivered with a 
disdainful smile, and his tears were scorched as by fire. His 
lips were parched. 

‘‘It is well,” he said, in a low voice. “I see, Holy Father, 
that T have nothing in this world to hope for except from 
myself.” 

“ You are mistaken, my son. You must not betray the 
secrets of the confessional, and yet your father shall live.” 

“Are we in the days of miracles. Holy Father? for nothing 
but a miracle can save him.” 

“You are mistaken, my son; for, without your revealing 
anything to me — for the confessional is as sacred to me as to 
another — I can write to the King of France that your father 
is innocent, and that I know it. If it is a lie, I take it upon 
myself, and I hope God will forgive it. I shall tell the King 
that I ask him to show mercy in this case.” 

“Mercy is not the word, Holy Father; mercy is shown 
only to the guilty. My father is innocent; he asks no mercy. 
iTe must die!” ; 

And the monk bowed humbly before the representative of 
the Church as he turned to depart., 

“Not yet, my son!” cried Leo XU. ; “you must not go 
yet. Eeflect!” ^ : 

But Dominique bent his knele. 

“One favor,” he said, “Holy Father, one favor at your 
hands — your benediction!” 

“With all my heart, my child!” cried Leo XII. And he 
extended his hands. 

“Your benediction in articulo mortisy^^ murmured the 
priest. 

The Pontiff hesitated. 

“ What are you about to do?” he asked. 

“It is my secret, Holy Father; a secret more terrible than 
that of the co^ifessional!” 

Leo XII. dropped his hands. 

“ I cannot bless him,” he said, “ who leaves me with a 
secret that he cannot reveal to the Vicar of Jesus Christ.” 

“Then it is not your benediction that I ask. Most Holy 
Father, it is your prayers.” 

“ Go, my son; they are yours.” 

The monk bowed Jow, and went away with a firm step. 


1^8 


HOSE-BE-ifOEL. 


But the Pope sunk into a chair; his strength failed him. 
He said aloud : 

‘‘ 0 my God, watch over this child, for he is of that race of 
which martyrs are made!” 


CHAPTER XXIIL 

TGRRE-VERGATA. 

The monk moved down the corridor with a slow step. He 
met a valet. 

‘‘Where shall I find his Excellency the Vicomte de Cha- 
teaubriand?” asked Dominique. 

“I have come to show you the way to him,” answered the 
valet as he turned. 

The monk followed. 

The poet, as he had said he would do, was waiting in the 
Stanze de Raphael, seated in front of the picture known as 
“ Saint Peter Delivered by the An'gels.” 

As soon as he heard the tread of sandaled feet he turned. 
He felt that the monk was near. He was right; Dominique 
stood before him. 

The Minister glanced at his face. It was cold and white 
as marble, and as calm. 

The Erenchman, sympathetic and impressionable, felt a 
nervous chill from head to foot. 

“Well?” asked the poet. 

“ I have only myself to look to now,” answered the monk. 

“ He has refused, then?” stammered the Embassador. 

“ Yes; and he could do nothing else. I was mad to believe 
for a moment that for me, that is to say, for a poor monk — 
that for my father, who was one of Napoleon’s faithful ad- 
herents — a fundamental law of the Church — a dogma that 
came from the lips of Christ Jesus himself — could be set 
aside.” 

“But,” said the poet, looking into the e3"es of his com- 
panion, “ do you mean that your father is to die?” 

The monk made no reply. 

“Will you repeat to me once more,” asked De Chateau- 
briand, “ that you know your father to be innocent?” 

“ I have already said so. Had my faHjer been guilty, I 
should have lied.” 

“ Excuse me. Listen now to me.” 

The monk bowed respectfully. 

The Minister continued: 


EOSE-BE-N^OEL, 


120 


know the King personally. He has a good and noble 
heart— -I might have said a great heart; but 1 cannot lie 

“ You intend/Mnterrnpted Dominique, “to offer to ap- 
peal to the King, and ask mercy for my father?’^ 

Y'es.^ 

‘‘ I thank you. This offer was made by his Holiness: but 
I refused it.’’ 

And what reason did you give for this refusal?” 

“That my father was condemned to death, and that mercy 
was shown only to the g^ilt3^ Were the King to pardon 
him, I know that the first use my father would make of his 
liberty would be to blow out his brains.” 

“But what is to be done?” asked the Viscount. 

“God, who reads the future and my heart, alone knows. 
If the project I have conceived is abhorrent in His sight, God, 
who can annihilate me, will reduce me to dust. If, on the 
contrary, God approves, he will make my path easy to me, 
and remove all obstaclea out of my way.” 

“Permit me, father,” said the Embassador, “to render 
your path less rough and less fatiguing.” 

“ By paying my passage on some ship or in some carriage?” 

“You belong to a poor order, father, and it cannot offend 
you for a countryman to offer you alms!” 

“In any other circumstances,” answered the monk, “I 
would receive these alms in the name of France, and I would 
kiss the hand that presented them. But I am accustomed to 
fatigue; and in the present condition of my mind, my nerves, 
and my heart, fatigue is what I need.” 

“ I understand that; but in a carriage or a ship you would 
go much faster.” 

“ Why should I go faster? There is no need of greater 
haste. Let me arrive in Paris the night before the day fixed 
for the execution, and that is all 1 ask. I have the word of 
the King that the execution shall be postponed for three 
months. I trust in this promise. Let me arrive in Paris on 
the eighty-ninth daj% and I am in time.” 

“Then, as there is no haste, allow me to offer you the bofe- 
pi tali ty of the French Embassy.” 

“I beg that your Excellency will forgive my repeated re- 
fusals; but I am about to leave Rome.” 

“And when?” 

“To-day.” 

“ At what hour?” 

“This very moment!” 

“ Without a prayer at Saint Peter’s?” 


EOSE-BE-XOEL. 


130 

have prayed there; and besides, I can pray as I walk.” 

‘'Allow me to see you well on your way, at least. ’V 

“ To leave you as late as possible, after all your kindness, 
would give me the greatest pleasure.” 

“You will give me time to lay aside my court dress?” 

“ To your Excellency I will gladly accord all the time you 
do me the honor to ask.” 

“ Then let us enter the carriage again and return to the 
Embassy.” 

The monk signified his consent and seated himself beside 
the embassador. 

Not one word was exchanged between the two as they drove. 

On reaching the Embassy, M. de Chateaubriand went to 
his cabinet with the monk, after saying a few words in a low 
voice to a servant. The Minister then passed through his 
cabinet to his dressing-room; and almost immediately, a table, 
already laid fp.r two persons, was brought into the room. 

Ten minutes later, M. de Chateaubriand returned, having 
’ivia'aside his uniform. 

He invited Dominique to take a seat at the table, and to 
eac. 

“ I made a vow,” answered the monk, “ when I left Paris, 
that T would take all my meals standing, eat bread alone, 
and drink only water, until my return to France.” 

“For this once, father,” said the poet, “ I wdll share your 
vow. I will eat bread and drink water as well as yourself. It 
is true, however, that this water comes from the Trevi fount- 
ain!” 

The two — the Embassador and the^ monk — stood as they 
ate and drank. 

“ Let us go!” said the poet, 

“Let us go!” repeated the monk. 

The carriage was standing at the door. 

“To Torre-Vergata!” said the Embassador. 

Then, turning to the monk, he added: 

“This is my usual drive, and I am undeserving of praise 
for going out of my way for you.” 

The carriage drove through the Corso, and then took the 
road to France. 

They passed the ruin known as Nero’s Tomb. Nero is the 
only emperor remembered by the Komans. “ What is that 
colossal statue?” “It is Nero’s,” is the reply. “What is 
that tower?” “ Nero’s tower.” “And that tomb?” “Nero’s 
tomb.” 


ROSE-BE XOEL. 131 

And all this is said without execration, without bitterness. 
The Romans of our day read Tacitus very little. 

To what does the assassin of his brother Britannicus, of 
his wife Octavia, and his mother Agrippina owe this immense 
popularity? 

Is it not because, with all his crimes, Nero was an artist? 

It is the virtuoso and not the emperor that the people re- 
member — not Caesar with the golden crown, but the actor with 
his wreath of ruses. 

'^lamto stop here,’’ said the poet. Shall the carriage 
take you further on?” 

** Wherever your Excellency stops, I too shall leave the car- 
riage and bid you farewell.” 

Farewell, then, father,” said the poet, and God go with 
you!” 

‘‘Adieu, my benefactor,” answered the monk. “I shall 
never forget what your Excellency has done for me, and still 
less what you wished to do.” 

And the monk, with his hands folded on his breast, took 
one step forward. 

“Will you not give me your benediction before leaving 
me?” said the old man. 

The monk shook his head. 

“ This morning,” he said, “ I could have given you my 
benediction, but, this afternoon, with the thoughts now 
seething in my heart, the benediction would prove a curse.” 

“So be it then, father,” answered the Embassador. “I 
will exercise the right given me by my age — and bless you. 
Go, and God be with you!” 

The monk bowed a last time, and took the road to Spoleto. 

He walked on for half an hour without once turning to 
look at Rome, which he was leaving, never, in all probability, 
to see again. He seemed to attach no more importance to 
this city than to any small village in France. 

The poet, motionless and silent, followed him with his eyes, 
until he could see him no longer, as Salvator bad done when 
the monk left Paris. 

At last Dominique disappeared behind the hills. Not once 
had the pilgrim turned his head. The poet sighed profound- 
ly, and then, with folded arms, Joined a group of men who 
were awaiting him at a short distance, near some excavations. 
The same evening he wrote to Alme. Recamier: 

“ I must write to you to-night, for my heart is very heavy. 

“ Nevertheless, 1 shall not speak to you of what disturbs 




ROSE-DE-XOEL. 


my heart— I will write only of what occupies my mind, Torre- 
Vergata is property belonging to the monks," situated about 
a league from Nero’s tomb, on the left as one goes to Eome; 
the place is exquisitely beautiful, but inexpressibly lonely. 
There is ^an immense amount of ruins, covered with earth, 
and overgrown with grass. 

‘‘ I began an exploration the day before yesterday, and was 
accompanied by Visconti, who directs the labor. The weather 
is delicious. A dozen men armed with pickaxes and shovels 
offer a spectacle quite worthy of you, working as they are 
among these ruined palaces. Would that we two could live 
in a tent amid all this dehris. 

I have put my own hand to the work, and am full of en- 
thusiasm, and hope to find something which will indemnify 
me for the money that I have put into this lottery of the 
dead. The very first day I found a block of marble, large 
enough to make Poussin’s bust. Yesterday we discovered 
the skeleton of a soldier and the arm of a statue of a woman; 
and to-day we have reason to believe that we shall find the 
statue; all these relics are of the time of Domitian, as an in- 
scription indicates — the fairest epoch of Roman art. 

These explorations are the limit of my drives. At present 
I take my seat among the ruins, and when I with my peas- 
ant laborers depart, silence and oblivion will settle again upon 
the scene. 

“ Think of all the human passions and interests of which 
these deserted scenes were formerly the theater. There were 
masters and slaves — the happy and the wretched— lovely 
creatures wlio loved and were beloved, and there were minis- 
ters, who were ambitious. A few birds still linger in these 
haunts; they, with me, will soon take flight. 

When I call Leonidas at Lacedaemon, he does not reply; 
the sound of my footsteps at Torre- Vergata awakens no one, 
and when I in my turn shall lie in my tomb, I shall not hear 
even the sound of your voice! It is clear to me that I 
must make haste to be with you, and clear my brain of all 
the shadows belonging to this misty past. There is nothing 
good but seclusion and an attachment like yours.” 

DE Chateaubriand.” 

The mail that leaves Rome every night at six o’clock car- 
ried this letter, and about eleven it passed, between Bac- 
cano and Nepi, a pilgrim seated on a stone by the side of 
the road. 


HOSE-BE-KOEL. 133 

This pilgrim was the monk Dominique, who was mak- 
ing his first halt on his journey from Rome to Paris. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

A LETTER. 

While the Abbe Dominique was on his way back to Paris, 
his heart, torn with conflicting emotions and" crushed by the 
result of his pilgrimage to Rome, our readers must allow 
themselves to be taken to the Rue Macon, and to Salvator’s 
rooms, and there they will learn the terrible event that had 
taken Regina to Petrus at seven o’clock in the morning. . 

Salvator, having been away for several days, had just re- 
turned when he was interrupted, while tenderly caressing 
Fragola, by three knocks at the door. 

The manner of knocking indicated that one of his three 
friends was without. He opened the door. Petrus stood 
there. 

Salvator drew back when, he saw the young man’s agitated 
face, and then snatched his hands. 

What is it.^” he cried. ‘‘ What terrible misfortune has 
arrived ?” 

An irretrievable one,” answered Petrus, in a voice that 
was almost unintelligible. 

‘‘ I do not believe that any misfortune but one is irrepara- 
ble,” answered Salvator, gravely, ‘‘and that is the loss of 
cue’s honor, and I can only say that I have as much faith in 
yours as in my own.” 

“ Thanks!” answered Petrus, affectionately, as he pressed 
his friend’s hands. 

“ Come, we are men, we will talk like men. Tell me, 
Petrus, what has happened?” 

“Read this,” answered the young man, giving his friend a 
letter, which was very much tumbled, and over which so 
many tears had been shed that it was difficult to decipher. 

Salvator took the letter, and as he unfolded it, he continued 
to watch Petrus. 

Then, dropping his eyes on the paper, he read; 

“7b the Princess Eegina cle la Motte-Hoiidan : 

^ “ Madame, — One of the most respectful and devoted serv- 

ants of the ancient and noble family of La Motte-Houdan 
has found, by one of those accidents in which the hand of 


134 


ROSE-DE-JS'OEL. 


Providence is clearly shown, an opportunity of rendering you 
anonymously one of the most important services that ona 
human creature can render to another. 

** You, I am sure, will share my opinion, madame, when 
you realize that not only are the repose and happiness of all 
your life involved, but also the honor of Monsieur le Comte 
Rappt, and also, and possibly too, a thing even more pre- 
cious — I mean the life of the illustrious Marshal, your father. 

** I ask your permission to remain silent as to the manner 
by which I became aware of the danger that menaced you, 
and also why I venture to indulge the hope that I may rescue 
you from the dangers that threaten you. I will content 
myself with repeating what I have already said, that I am a 
devoted servant of the Motte-Houdan family. 

These are the facts, madame, in all their terrible reality: 

‘‘ A man, a scoundrel, a villain of the deepest dye, has 
found, by accident, he says, in the possession of Monsieur 
Petrus, eleven letters signed with the name of Regina, 
Oomtesse de Brignoles. He knows well, madame, that 
you are not the Comtesse de Brignoles; your nobility 
IS much older than that of those worthy merchants who 
have made themselves known through their prunes, but 
he says that if you choose to deny the name you cannot 
deny the writing. I am totally ignorant of the accident that 
threw these letters into the hands of this man, but I can tell 
you at least of the enormous value he places upon them ” 

Salvator looked up at Petrus, as if to ask if there were any 
truth in all this. 

Go on!” said Petrus; there is much more to say.” 

Salvator continued: 

He asks the enormous sum of five hundred thousand 
francs, which, great as it is and seriously as it will impair 
your fortune, will nevertheless insure you tranquillity in the 
future.” 

Salvator frowned fiercely as he read these words, and Petrus 
cried: 

''Is it not horrible?” 

" Horrible! Indeed it is,” answered Salvator, shaking his 
head sadly. Then, continuing to read, he said: 

"This villain, madame, calmly states by way of justifying 
the exorbitant sum that he sets "upon these precious letters, 
that each one, in consideration of the beauty and social posi- 


ROSE-DE-NOEL. 


135 


tion of the writer, is worth fifty thousand francs; that each 
line is worth a thousand francs, and, therefore, the whole 
eleven must be estimated at five hundred and fifty thousand 
francs. 

“ Do not be startled, madame; yon will see at once that 
my friend — he is my friend — will reduce his demand to five 
hundred thousand francs. 

No arguments, no entreaties, no threats even, could move 
him. He persists in his execrable purpose, and not only 
that, but declares that owing to the sentiments expressed in 
these letters — sentiments whose publication would imperil the 
honor of Monsieur le Comte Eappt and the precious life of 
the Marshal de la Motte-Houdan — five hundred thousand 
francs are the merest bagatelle. 

“ I have done my best to show him the dangers' he runs in 
playing such a game. I have shown him that you would im- 
mediately put the matter in the hands of the police and cause 
his arrest, when he should come to claim the money which be" 
thought his right. I told him that many a woman thus threat- 
ened, and her dearest affections so imperiled, would not hes- 
itate to have him assassinated. But, at this remark of mine, 
which was made in all seriousness, the rascal began to laugh, 
saying that were this course pursued you would suffer more 
than ever, for the letters were in the hands of persons who 
would produce them and have them published, thus injuring 
not only your reputation, but endangering the honor of the 
Comte Eappt and the precious life of the Marshal. 

I was obliged to yield to reasoning like this. Ah, ma- 
dame, there are terrible scoundrels in this unfortunate world! 

am pained to tell you that after seeking in every direc- 
tion, I can suggest no issue out of your difficulties save that 
of yielding to the demands of this wretch. 

“ I have now to lay before you the following propositions, 
as coming from him, hoping and wishing, madame, that, 
coming as they do through the medium of a loyal and virtu- 
ous gentleman, the words of this rascjal will lose a portion of 
their bitterness. 

He asks, therefore, five hundred thousand francs, and in 
order to prove to you his loyalty and unselfishness — the hu- 
man heart is deceitful, you know, and sometimes strange 
language falls from the tongue— but to prove to you, I re- 
peat, his loyalty and disinterestedness, he offers to send you 
the first letter without any conditions whatever, in order, if 
jon are still blind enough to entertain any doubt, that this 


13G 


EOSE-DE-KOEL 


doubt shall be removed. He therefore bids me inclose this 
letter in mine. 

“ He thinks, after giving you a proof so overwhelming of 
his good faith, that you will no longer doubt the honesty of 
his propositions. If his conditions are accepted, of which he, 
by the way, entertains no doubt, he begs you to place to- 
night, as a token of consent, a candle in the last window of 
your private apartments. 

He will be underneath this window as the clock strikes 
midnight. 

“ This first point settled, he begs you to be near the gate 
of your garden at noon the next day. A man in whose face 
there is nothing to alarm you — for it is innocence itself — will 
approach the gate and show you a package of letters. 

“ You, madame, will show him in reply a bundle of bank- 
notes, the first installment of the price agreed upon. He will 
take three steps toward you, and you three steps toward him. 
At the same moment that he extends his hand, you will ex- 
tend yours. You will receive a letter, and he its price. 

This will be repeated until you have ten letters in your 
possession. 

‘‘My friend believes, madame, that the evil days which 
he, like most Frenchmen, has been called upon to endure of 
late — the ad vance in the price of living and in the price of 
rents, the distracting demands of a numerous famishing 
family — are sufficient reasons to justify, or, at all events, exten- 
uate, the audacity of his request. 

“ As to him who has undertaken, in a fashion which is al- 
together disinterested, to become the intermediary of this 
wretch, fie bows before you and implores you for the third 
time to include him in the number of your most humble 
servants. Comte Ercolano.” 

“ He is, indeed, a great scoundrel,” said Salvator, in his 
gentle voice. 

“Yes, indeed, an infamous scoundrel!” repeated Petrus, 
with compressed lips and clinched fists. 

“ And what do you propose to do?” asked Salvator, looking 
fixedly at Petrus. 

“ I do not know,” cried Petrus, despairingly. “ I was near 
going mad; suddenly I thought of you, and I hurried to ask 
your advice and assistance.” 

' “You have no remedy to propose, then?” 

“ I must admit that but one offers itself at present.” 

“ And what is that?” 


ROSE-DE-WEL. 


1B7 


blow out my brains.” 

Which is not a remedy, but a crime,” answered Salvator, 
coldly; and a crime has never remedied a mistake.” 

‘‘Forgive me,” answered the young man, extending his 
hand, which Salvator cordially met. Fragola all this time was 
watching them with bowed head and folded hands, like a 
statue of Pity. 

“Oh, my friend,” continued Petrus, “you must save 
me!” 

“ I will try,” said Salvator, “but I must first hear all the 
circumstances — every detail. You understand, of course, 
that it is not from curiosity that I ask to know your secrets.” 

“ God knows that I have none, so far as you are concerned, 
nor has Kegina — she and Fragola are as one,” and Petrus laid 
his hand on that of the young girl. 

“But,” said Fragola, “why has she not come to me now?” 

“A¥hat could you do in these circumstances?” asked 
Petrus. 

“ Weep with her,” Fragola replied. 

“You are an angel!” murmured Petrus. 

“ Come,” said Salvator, “there is no time to lose. How 
did this letter, addressed to the Oomtesse Rappt, fall into 
your hands? How did the brigand get possession of her let- 
ters to you? Whom do you suspect of stealing them?” 

“I will do my best to give you all the information you re- 
quire, my dear Salvator; but you must not be surprised if, 
not having your self-control, I am somewhat confused in my 
replies.” 

“Go on, my friend,” said Salvator, gently. 

“ Go on, and have faith in God,” added Fragola, rising to 
leave the room. 

“Oh, stay— pray, stay,” said Petrus; “have you not been 
Regina’s friend as long as Salvator has been mine?” 

Fragola assented and reseated herself. 

“ Well, then, this morning, a half hour since,” said Petrus, 
after a few moments’ silence, “ Regina arrived at my door in 
a state of great agitation. 

“ ‘Have you my letters?’ she asked. 

“ So little did I suspect what had taken place that I said 
in reply: 

“ ‘What letters?’ 

“‘The letters 1 have written to you, my friend,’ she 
answered — ‘eleven letters in all.’ 

“ ‘Yes, I have them,’ I said. 

“ ‘And where are they?’ - 


138 


KOSE-DE-NOEL. 


^In that piece of furniture — in the casket/ 

‘ Open it — show them to me.* 
wore the key on a chain around my neck; it never left 
me, night or day. 

^Show them to me, quick!’ she repeated. 

I opened the cabinet. The casket was fastened firmly in 
its place. 

“ ‘Look!’ I said. 

“‘Yes/ she answered, ‘I see the casket — but the let- 

“ ‘ They are in it.’ 

“ ‘I must see them, Petrus.’ 

“I unlocked the casket, full of confidence, and a smile on 
my lips. 

“The casket was empty. 

“I uttered a cry of agony, and Kegina groaned. 

“ ‘Ah!’ she said, ‘it is true, then!’ 

“I was crushed to the earth. I fell on my knees before 
her. 

“ Then it was that she gave me the letter you have just 
seen. I read it, and for the first time realized how easily 
one might become a murderer.” 

“Do you suspect anyone? — are you sure of your servant?” 

“ My servant is a fool, but he is incapable of an act like 
this.” 

“ But you must suspect some one?"' 

“I have a vague suspicion, but that is all.” 

“One proceeds from the unknown to the known. Whom 
do you suspect?” 

“A man whom you would have seen at my rooms, had you 
been there recently.” 

Salvator, instead of apologizing for not having been near 
his friend for so long a time, remained silent. 

“A man,” continued Petrus, who understood his friend’s 
manner — “ a man who called himself my godfather.” 

“ Your godfather? Ah! I see. He was a sea-captain, per- 
haps?” 

“Yes.” 

“And an amateur artist.” 

“Yes, precisely— an old friend of my father. Do you 
know him?” 

“No, but before I went away, Jean Robert told me some- 
thing which left an unpleasant impression on my mind. I 
felt vaguely that you were about to be the dupe of some ras- 


EOSE-DE-HOEL. 


139 


cality, or some mystification. I was unfortunately detained 
for some days, and now that I am at home again had resolved 
to go this morning to make the acquaintance of this person. 

• And you say that this man presented himself as an old friend 
of your father; he called himself by a name that was familiar 
to you, and one, moreover, that you had learned to respect as 
that of a brave and loyal sailor. But did you think that this 
man had a right to bear this name?’’ 

‘‘How could I doubt it? And besides, what possible 
motives could he have had for such a deception?” 

“You see now; he wanted to steal those letters.” 

“ Why should I have thought so? Ho appeared rolling in 
riches, and began by doing me a great service.” 

“A service!” said Salvatoj;, looking steadily at P6trus. 
“ What service?” 

“ Petrus felt the color rush to his face under this inquisi- 
torial gaze. 

“ He prevented ” — stammered Petrus — “ he prevented the 
sale of my furniture and pictures by lending me ten thousand 
francs.” 

“Yes, and asked five hundred thousand in return from the 
Comtesse Eappt. You must admit, Petrus, that the fellow 
knew how to manage his financial matters.” 

Petrus looked at his friend reproachfully. 

“ I was wrong, I dare say,” he continued, “but accept the 
ten thousand francs I certainly did.” 

“ So that you now owe ten thousand francs more than you 
did,^’ said Salvator. 

“No,” answered Petrus; “for, with the money this man 
lent me, I paid out six or seven thousand francs — the most 
pressing of my debts.” 

“ That is of no consequence now,” Salvator replied; “ we 
have more serious matters in hand. This man has disap- 
peared, then?” 

*‘Yes.” 

“ Since when?” 

“Since yesterday morning.” 

“ And you were not uneasy?” 

“ Not in the least. He often remained away twenty-four 
hours.” 

“ He is the man.” 

“ But ” 

“ I tell you it is he. It were utterly useless to follow any 
other scent.” 

“ I agree with you, my friend; I am forced to do so.” 


140 


ROSE-DE-KOEL, 


What did the Countess do on receiving this letter?^’ 

‘‘She calculated her resources.’^ 

“ She is immensely rich/’ 

“ Yes, but she cannot sell or mortgage without her hus- 
band’s consent; and, of course, this she cannot ask in a mat- 
ter like this. He is, moreover, some eight hundred leagues 
away. She has gathered together her diamonds, laces, and 
jewels, but all these things, valuable as they are, and dear as 
they are when one wants to buy them, lose half their value 
when one wishes to sell them. And she can only make up 
seventy -five or eighty thousand francs, at the most.” 

“ She has friends.” 

“ Madame de Marande. She went to her. Monsieur de 
Marande is unfortunately in Vienna. Madame de Marande 
gave her all the money she had, and a set of emeralds, about 
sixty thousand francs more. As to poor Carmelite, it was 
useless to go to her; she could do nothing, and ought not to 
be needlessly pained. 

“AndpoOT Fragola,” said the young girl, “ has only this 
gold ring, which she would not give for five hundred thousand 
francs, but which a jeweler would probably estimate at ten.” 

“There is your uncle,” continued Salvator; “the General 
is rich — he is much attached to you — and his nature is so 
chivalrous, that he would gladly give his life to save the honor 
of a woman like the Comtesse Rappt 

“ Yes,” said Petrus, “ he would give his life, but he would 
not give the tenth part of his fortune. I, of course, thought 
of him, but the General is of a violent temper, and never 
temporizes. He would take up a position behind a tree to 
await the villain when he went for the money, and would fall 
tooth and nail on the first suspicious-looking person who 
made his appearance on the Boulevard des Invalides.” 

“And if this person should prove to be our scoundrel,” 
answered Salvator, “ it is by no means certain that he would 
have the letters about him. Then, too, as the rascal says 
himself, any attempt of that kind is sure to lead to a trial and "to 
the publication of the letters; and this would stain the 
honor of the Countess.” 

“ There may be one other way,” said Petrus. 

“ And what, is that?” 

“ You know Monsieur Jackal?” 

“Well?” 

“It might be well to speak to him,” 

Salvator smiled. 


HOf^Tl-DTI-KOEL. 


141 

Yes,” he said; I see what you mean. Tt seems a natural 
and simple thing to do; but in reality it would be the most 
dangerous step you could take.^’ 

How do you mean?” 

What good did our appeal to the law do in our search for 
Mina? But for a happy chance — no; but for the direct in- 
terposition of Providence — she would still be the prisoner of 
Monsieur de Valgeneuse. What did we gain in the Sarranti 
affair? Then, too, there is Rose-de-Noel. You may be sure 
of one thing, my friend, which is, that our police of 1828 
never discover anything except when it is to their interest to 
do so. Now, in this matter of yours, X am absolutely certain 
that nothing will be discovered by the police. I will go 
still further, and maintain that they will, on the contrary, 
throw every obstacle in our path.” 

But why?” 

‘‘Because, unless I greatly mistake, the police are already 
fully aware of what has taken place.” 

“ The police? What possible interest can they have in 
ruining the Comtesse Rappt?” 

“ My dear fellow, there are the police and also policemen; 
just as there are religion and priests. They are very different 
things. The police is an excellent body^ an excellent in- 
stitution in itself; but it works with corrupt agents. You 
ask what interest the police can have in the dishonor and ruiii' 
of the Comtesse Rappt. What interest could they have in 
the abduction of Mina? What interest in the execution of 
Sarranti, whose scaffold has been standing for the last week 
in readiness on the Place de Greve? What interest can they 
have in assisting Monsieur Gerard to pass as an honest man? 
What interest can they have in Rose-de-NoeFs disappearance? 
The police, my friend, is a dark and mysterious divinity, who 
moves in subterranean paths. Toward what ends? Ah! this 
no one knows but themselves. This worthy body, my friend, 
has so many aims in view, that they are not, I fancy, quite 
sure always of what they want themselves. Among tliem are 
men of intellect, men of humor — like Monsieur Jackal — who 
enjoy their rdle in life. This Jackal is full of caprices. You 
know his maxim when he wishes to discover some puzzling 
secret: ‘Look for the woman!’ In this case the woman was 
not difficult to discover. In these days the police is divided 
against itself — the King’s police, the Dauphin’s police, the 
Royalist police, and the ultra-Royalist police. The Comte 
Rappt is sent to Russia, it is said to treat with the Emperor 
in regard to a grand project which aims at an afliance against 


142 


EOSE-DE-XOEL. 


England— an alliance which would restore to us our frontier 
on the Rhine. Monsieur de la Mothe-Houdan has ^en sum- 
moned to the Tuileries. A new Cabinet is to be formed, com- 
posed of Messieurs de Martignac, Portalis, De Caus, Roy, and 
De Laferronnays, I presume; but the Marshal will not 
allow himself to be made use of; he absolutely refuses to 
enter this transitional Cabinet. It may be that they are de- 
termined to force the portfolio into his hand, under penalty 
of this scandal. My dear boy, in these days anything, every- 
thing is possible.” 

Yes,” said Petrus, with a sigh, except to find five hun- 
dred thousand francs!” 

Salvator looked as if he did not hear these words. 

Then, pursuing his own thoughts, he said: 

“Remember, however, that I state nothing as facts; I only 
give you my surmises, and I am as much puzzled as your- 
self.” 

“I am utterly hopeless,” answered Petrus, gloomily, “and 
shall sit still and do nothing.” 

“Then,” said Salvator, with a smile which astonished 
Petrus, “ I shall work alone. Unless I greatly err, the police 
are undermining us. This sailor who installed himself with 
you, who knew you in your boyhood, and, in the character of 
Captain Hervel, was made acquainted with all your family 
secrets — this man, I say, strikes me as having come from the- 
Rue de Jerusalem. He has but one father or mother, and 
that is this beneficent police, who knows the private life of a 
man from his cradle to his studio. Then, too, I always place 
much faith in the theory that a man’s handwriting tells his 
character. Examine these lines now.” 

And Salvator held out the letter to Petrus. 

“The hand that wrote these lines never trembled. The 
writing is large, firm, and regular, and not in the least dis- 
guised. This shows that the writer does not fear being recog- 
nized. The man who composed that letter is clever, and also 
determined. He knows that he risks the galleys, and yet not 
a letter is unfinished or wavering; it is all as clear as a book- 
keeper would have written. We have, therefore, to do with 
a bold and resolute enemy. So be it. I love a contest with 
such a nature as much as I detest having anything to do with 
a cunning scoundrel. We will take our measures accord- 
ingly.” 

“ We will take our measures?” said Petrus. 

“I mean to say that I will.” 


ROSE-DE-KOEL. 


143 


But if you inteiul to do anything,” cried P6trus, quickly, 
“it must be because you have some hope.” 

“ I have more tlian a hope now, I have a certainty.” 

“Salvator!” P6tTus exclaimed, suddenly, becoming paler 
with joy than ho had been with terror; “ Salvator, take care 
what you say.” 

“ I say, my friend, that we^have a rough customer to deal 
with; but you have seen that I am not readily discouraged. 
Where is Regina?” 

“She lias returned home, where she is waiting with anx- 
iety for Fragola to take her a reply.” 

“She relies on Fragola, then?” 

“ As I rely on you.” 

“ You are both right, and it is pleasant to have friends 
who feel such confidence in us.” 

“Salvator, I dare not ask you a question; but ” 

“ Put on your hat and mantle, Fragola, take a carriage, has- 
ten to Regina, and tell her to go to Madame de Marande, and 
restore the jewels and the money; tell her to restore her own 
diamonds to their cases, and her money to her purse; to wait 
quietly, and not be too anxious; and to-night to place the 
candle, as desired, at the last window of the pavilion.” 

The young girl turned away without seeming to be in the 
least astonished at this mission given her by Salvator, 

“ But,” said Petrus, “ if Regina shows the required signal 
to-night, to- morrow night at the same hour the man will 
present himself to claim the five hundred thousand francs.” 

“Unquestionably.” 

“What will she do, then?” 

“ She will give them to him.” 

“And who will give them to her for that purpose?” 

“ I will,” answered Salvator. 

“ You!” cried Petrus, aghast at this assurance, and almost 
tempted to think that Salvator had lost his mind. 

“Yes, I.” 

“ But where will you procure them?” 

“ That, surely, is of little consequence, provided I dd pro- 
cure them.” 

“ Oh, my friend, I do not see — I do not understand.” 

“ You are very incredulous, Petrus, but you have a prec- 
edent in Saint Thomas; and like Saint Thomas, you will 
see.” 

“And when?” 

“To-morrow.” ' . 

•‘1 6hall see the five hundred thousand franesP 


144 


ROSE-DE-KOEL. 


Yes; divided into ten packages, in order to spare Regina 
tbe trouble of dividing tbem. Each package will contain, as 
this man orders, ten bank-notes of five tbousand francs each.” 

But,’’ stammered Petrus, ^^tbey will not be good notes?’' 

For wbat do you take me?” asked Salvator. don't 
care to have our man send me to tbe galleys!, They will be, 
I assure you, good, clean notes; and each will bear tbeso 
words in red letters: ‘ The law punishes counterfeiters.’” 

I am ready,” said Fragola, returning with her hat on. 

You remember what you are to say?” 

‘^Return to Madame de Marande her jewels and her bank- 
notes; restore your own diamonds to their cases, and your 
money to your purse; and give to-morrow, at the appointed 
hour, tbe signal agreed upon.” 

Which is?” 

^^To place a lighted candle in the last window of tbe pavil- 
ion.” 

Hear that, now!” said Salvator, laughing. 

You see what it to be the friend of a commissionaire. 
Go, my dove; I send you out from the ark to bring us back 
news.” 

And Salvator watched the pretty creature with loving eyes 
as she flew down the stairs. As to Petrus, he would gladly 
have kissed the slender feet that hastened to bear good news 
to a friend. 

‘^Ah, Salvator!” exclaimed Petrus, as the door closed after 
Fragola, “ how can I ever thank you for the service you aro 
doing me?” 

‘^By forgetting it,” answered Salvator, with his gentle 
smile. 

^‘Bnt,” urged Petrus, ^‘can I never return it?” 
i Who can tell?” 

But what am I to do now?” 

Remain perfectly quiet.” 

‘‘Where shall I stay?” 

“ Wherever you choose. In your rooms, i£-you wish.” 

“ Oh, I can’t do that!” 

“Walk, then; ride, drive! Go to Belleville, to Bondy, to 
Montmartre, Saint-Germain, or Versailles; go anywhere you 
choose, except to the Boulevard des Invalides.” 

“But Regina?” 

“ Regina will be entirely reassured by Fragola, and I am 
certain that she, far more reasonable than yourself, will 
remain quietly at home.” 

“ I am afraid, Salvator, that it is a dream.” 


EOSE-DE-KOEL. 


145 


A very bad one, then.” 

‘^But you say that to-morrow you will show me the bank- 
notes?” 

“At what hour will you be at home?” 

At any hour you choose; all day long, if you say so.” 

“But you declared that you could not stay still.” 

“I know I did, but I hardly knew what I was saying. 
Then, to-morrow at ten o'clock, Salvator.” 

“To-morrow night, at ten o'clock.” 

“I must leave you. I shall suffocate if I do not get into 
the open air!” 

“ Wait a little; I must go out myself, and we will go to- 
gether.” 

“Ah!” cried Petrus, raising his arms above his head, “is 
it true — is it real? We are saved!” And he filled his lungs 
with air. 

In the meantime Salvator entered the sleeping room and 
took from a secret drawer in a small rosewood table a paper 
ornamented with a double stamp, and covered with fine 
writing. This paper he placed carefully in the pocket of his 
velvet vest. 

The two young men rapidly descended the stairs, leaving 
Eoland to guard the apartment. 

At the street door Salvator held out his hand to Petrus. 

“'Are we not going the same way?” asked the young 
artist. 

“I think not,” Salvator replied. “You will probably go 
to the Kue Notre-Dame-des-Ohamps, while I am certainly 
going to the Kue aux Fers.” 

“What! you are going ” 

“ Yes,” interrupted Salvator, “ it is a long time since the 
market-women have seen me, and they must be extremely 
anxious. 1 will acknowledge one thing, however, which is 
that I need to execute a few commissions before your five 
hundred thousand francs are ready for you.” 

With a smile on his lips, Salvator nodded adieu to Petrus, 
who walked away thoughtfully. As we have nothing at 
present to do with the painter and his studio, we will follow 
Salvator, not to the Rue aux Fers, where he had no idea of 
going, but to the Rue de Varennes, where the worthy notary 
resided whom we have already presented to our readers under 
the name of Pierre-Nicolas Baratteau. 


146 


KOSE-DE-JhOEL. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE HOTAKY. 

Notaeies are like chickens — with this difference, that we 
eat the one and are eaten by the other. There are also good 
and bad notaries, as there are good and bad chickens. 

M. Baratteau belonged to the latter category. He was a bad 
notary in every acceptation of the word, and all the worse 
because, in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, he enjoyed a repu- 
tation for honesty and integrity equal to that enjoyed by M. 
Gerard at Vanvres. There was some talk of making him 
mayor or deputy, or something of the kind, as a tribute to 
his superlative goodness. 

M. Loredan de Valgeneuse protected this Baratteau, and 
through his influence, the notary had received the cross of 
the Legion of Honor. 

The honest notary was therefore decorated, to the great 
scandal of his clerks, who had a vague consciousness that he 
had appropriated certain stocks that did not belong to him. 
This accusation was not strictly just, after all, for Baratteau 
had not been guilty of absolute crime, and when this affair 
occurred he was a clerk, not a notary. He had mortgaged 
certain stocks in order to complete his studies, but had since 
paid his liabilities in full. His clerks, therefore, were severe 
in their judgment, but something must be forgiven to young 
clerks to whom a scarlet ribbon is like the red cape of the 
torredor to the bulls in an arena. 

It was to this person that Salvator repaired. He entered 
as Baratteau was bowing out an old chevalier of Saint-Louis 
with much humility. On perceiving Salvator in the door- 
way, Baratteau cast upon him a disdainful glance, which 
was quite equivalent to saying What does this fellow want?” 
Then, as Salvator did not appear to understand this mute 
disdainful question, Baratteau asked it aloud, but of his 
clerks, not of Salvator himself. 

W^hat does this man want?” he asked. 

I wish to speak to you, sir,” answered the commissionnaire# 

‘‘You have a letter for me?” 

“Ho, sir; I came to speak to you on my own affairs.” 

“ Your own affairs?” 

Yes, sir.” : 


ROSE-DE-KOEL, 


147 


Tell my bead clerk wbat you wish to say, my man; it will 
be all the same.” 

“ I can speak only to you, eir.^’ 

‘‘Then call another day — I am extremely busy to day.’* 

“ I am sorry, sir, but it must be to-day and no other thait 
I must speak.'’ 

“ To me, you say?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

The firm, grave tone in which Salvator spoke, had its effect 
on Baratteau. 

He turned back in some astonishment, and hesitating a lit- 
tle, as if undecided whether to ask Salvator to his private 
office, said: 

“ Well, then, speak. Tell me your business in the fewest 
possible words.” 

“Impossible!” said Salvator. “ My business is private.” 

“ Upon my word, you are a cool fellow!” 

“I need fifteen minutes of uninterrupted conversation 
with you — and even then I do not know that you will be in- 
clined to do what I ask.” 

.“But, my friend, if the thing you desire is so diffi- 
cult 

“It is difficult, but feasible.” ’ 

“Ah! It seems to me that you are very persistent. Do yon 
know that I am a man who has no time to lose?” 

“I am aware of that, but I promise you in advance that 
you will not consider your time lost with me. I come from 
Monsieur de Valgeneuse.” 

“You!” asked the notary, in a tone that seemed to say, 
“ How can a man like you have anything to do with a man 
like De Valgeneuse?” 

“ Yes — I,” answered Salvator. 

“ Go into my private office,” said Baratteau, conquered by 
Salvator’s persistence, “though I can’t in the least under- 
stand what possible connection can exist between my client 
and yourself.” 

“ You will understand soon,” said Salvator, as he fol- 
lowed the notary into his private office, and closed the door 
between it and the room where the clerks were. 

At the sound of the closing door, Baratteau turned. 

“Why do you shut that door?” he asked. 

“That your clerks may not hear what I am about to say.” 

“Is it then so very mysterious?” 

“You can judge for yourself.” 

“Upon my word!” began the notary, as he went to his 


148 


llOSE-DE-lvOEL. 


desk and seated himself behind it, as a sharp-shooter placed 
himself behind a barricade. 

He looked at his strange companion with some uneasi- 
ness for a moment, then he said: 

Speak, if you please.’^ 

Salvator, looking about the room, saw a chair, this he 
brought toward the desk, and seated himself. 

You are sitting?” asked the notary, amazed. 

.‘^Did I not tell you that I had to talk to you for at 
least fifteen minutes?” 

“But I did not tell you to be seated!” 

“liim aware of that, but I took it for granted that the 
omission arose from forgetfulness on your part.” 

“ And why did you suppose that?” 

“Because" it is evident that the last person here was 
seated.” 

“ But that person was the Comte de Noireterre, Chevalier 
de Saint-Louis.” . 

“ It is possible; but in the Code I read: ‘All men are 
equal before the law.’ I am a Frenchman as well as 
the Comte de Noireterre — possibly a better one — and I 
can take a seat if he did; only, as I am thirty-four and he 
is seventy, I take an ordinary chair instead of the fauteuil 
which he occupied,” 

The notary’s face was a picture of astonishment. Then, a» 
if speaking to himself, he said: 

“ Oh! it is some wager, of course. Speak, young man.” 

“ You are right. I laid a wager with one of my friends 
that you would have the kindness to lend me a certain sum 
which I need. I should require it only for about twenty-four 
hours.” 

“Ah! now we have it!” cried Baratteau, with that inso- 
lent sneer of which men of business are often guilty when 
people propose arrangements which seem to them prepos- 
terous. 

“Yes, we have it,” returned Salvator; “and it is your 
fault that we have not reached this point sooner; as for my- 
self, I was only too eager to speak.” 

“Yes; I understand that.” 

“ I made this wager ” 

“ And you were very foolish.” 

“ That you would lend me the sum of which my friend 
stood in such bitter need.” 

“ I have no money to lend at this moment.” 

“ Oh! of course, all notaries say that.” 


ROSE-DE-?mOEL. 


140 


And when I have, T lend only on first; mortgages. Have 
you any real estate?” 

I must confess that just at present I have not an inch of 
ground I can call my own.” 

Then what the deuce are you doing here?” 

'‘ That is what I want to tell you.” 

“ My good friend,” said Baratteau, calling to his aid all 
the majesty of which he was capable, "let us end this pleas- 
antry, if yon please. My clients are prudent and sensible; 
they do not lend their money to the first comer.” 

" But it is not your clients’ money that I ask,” answered 
Salvator, without seeming to be in the smallest degree intimi- 
dated by the dignity displayed. 

" It is mine, then, perhaps?” asked the notary. 

" Unquestionably.” 

" My good man, you are mad.” 

" Why?” 

" Because notaries are forbidden to speculate with their 
own fortunes.” 

"Is that so?” asked Salvator. "There are a great many 
things that notaries are forbidden to do, and yet they do 
them.” ■ ; 

“ That is quite enough!” said Baratteau, rising and going 
toward the bell. 

"No,” answered Salvator, extending his arm and barring 
his passage. " As I have not yet said all I wish to say, have 
the goodness to resume your place, and continue to listen to 
me.” 

Baratteau looked at the intruder with flashing eyes, but in 
the man’s expression, in his attitude and manner, there was 
so much sleeping strength that the notary seated himself. 

As he did so a smile curled his lips; it was evident that he 
was preparing a blow that he considered impossible for his 
adversary to parry. 

" It strikes me,” he said, " that you mentioned having 
come from Monsieur Loredan de Valgeneuse.” 

" Your memory is at fault, sir,” answered Salvator. " I 
never said that I came from Monsieur LorMau de Valge- 
neuse.” 

" I beg your pardon, sir!” 

" I told you that I came from Monsieur de Valgeneuse,” 

" That is the same thing, I should say.” 

"No; it is quite the contrary.” 

" Pray explain yourself, for I begin to be very tired of this 
nonsense.” 


150 


ROSE-DE-i;OEL. 


** I have the honor of rejjeating, sir, that if I have not 
already finished with you, it is your own fault.” 

^^Then, let us finish.” 

** I ask nothing better. Notwithstanding the excellent 
memory with which you seem to be gifted, sir, you appear to 
have forgotten that there exist two Valgeneuses.” 

‘‘ How do you mean?” asked the notary, starting. 

“ One who is called Lor^dan, and the other Conrad.” 

“ And you come from the latter?” 

From the* one who is called Conrad.” 

“You knew him, then?” 

“ I have always known him.” 

“ I mean to say before his death.” 

“ Are you sure that he is dead?” 

At this simple question the notary started from his chair. 

“ Did you ask if I was sure?” he cried. 

“ Yes, sir, that was what I said,” replied the young man. 

“ Of course, I am sure of it.” 

“ Look at me well.” 

“ Look at you! What for?” 

“I say, think Monsieur Conrad de Valgeneuse is 
living;’ you answer, ‘I am sure he is dead;’ then I say, ^ Look 
at me well;’ perhaps the examination would settle the 
question.” 

“ I don’t see how,” said the notary. 

“Simply because I happen to be Monsieur Conrad de 
Valgeneuse.” 

“You!” cried Baratteau, becoming excessively pale. 

“Yes, I,” answered Salvator, with the same calmness as 
before. 

“You are an impostor,” stammered the notary; “Mon- 
sieur Conrad is dead!” 

As the notary spoke, his haggard eyes were riveted on the 
young man, whom he undoubtedly recognized, for he made 
no further denial. 

“ And what if you are Monsieur de Valgeneuse?” he said, 
sulkily, “ what then?” 

“I should at least be treated politely by you, and I should 
convince you that I meant what I said when I told you that 
there were two De Valgeneuses living.” 

“ But, Monsieur Conrad ” 

“ Conrad de Valgeneuse,” said Salvator, politely correcting 
him. 

The notary seemed to say, “ If you insist,” and went on: 


BOSE-DE-KOEL. 


151 


Then, Monsieur Conrad de Valgeneuse, you know better 
than any one else what took place at the death of your father ?’^ 
Better than any one, as you say/’ answered the young 
man, in a tone that caused a chill to^ run through the veins 
of the notary, who, however, summoned all his courage, and 
said, with a knowing smile: 

‘‘But not better than I?” 

“Not better, perhaps, but quite as well.” 

There was a long silence, during which Salvator fixed on 
the magistrate one of those looks with which a serpent fas- 
cinates a bird. 

But, as even the bird does not fall without a struggle into 
the jaws of the serpent, Baratteau made a last struggle. 

“What do you want?” he asked. 

“In the first place, are you convinced of my identity.^” 
asked Salvator. 

“As much as one can be of the identity of a man to whose 
funeral one has been,” said the notai7, whose doubts were 
beginning to return. 

“ That is to say,” resumed Salvator, “ that you have been 
to the funeral of a body that I purchased in the dissecting- 
room, and passed oS as my own from motives which I need 
not explain to you.” 

This w^as the last blow. The notary attempted no further 
discussion. 

“In fact,” he said, “as I look at you, I recall your face, 
but I must confess that I did not recognize you at first — I 
suppose because I believed you to be dead, and then because 
you are much changed.” 

“One changes a great deal in six years,” said Salvator, 
sadly. 

“ Do you mean that it is six years? It is frightful to think 
of the rapidity with which time passes,” answered the notary, 
relieved to be able to utter commonplaces. 

As he talked, however, Baratteau examined the costume of 
the young man, but after satisfying himself that the dress 
was that of acommissionnaire, even to the badge on the breast, 
he decided that Salvator’s application to him was a natural 
one. The young m^n’s costume was clean and whole, to be 
sure, but he had been driven by some dire necessity to ask a 
little loan. The notary said to himself that he would not 
leave a Valgeneuse to starve, even if there were a bar sinister 
on his shield. 

Determined to advance a few louig, and comforted by this 


m 


nOSH-DE-ITOEL. 


charitable resolve, Baratteau settled himself in his arm-chair, 
crossed one leg over the other, and taking up a paper from his 
desk, began to look it over in order to take advantage of the 
time, when the young man was making up his mind how to 
ask the favor for which he had come. Salvator did not speak, 
but if the notary had looked up at his face, he would have 
caught an expression of contempt upon it that would have 
startled him. ^ 

But the notary did not lift his eyes from the paper, which 
he pretended to read. It was, therefore, with eyes still down- 
cast that ho said, in a tone of Christian pity: 

‘‘ And you are a commissionnaire, rhy poor fellow?’’ 

** Yes, lam a commissionnaire,” answered Salvator, smiling 
in spite of himself. 

‘‘I suppose you can make a living in this way?” asked 
Baratteau, still without turning his head. 

1 do not complain, at all events,” Salvator replied, while 
admiring the coolness of the notary. 

^^How much do you make in a day, as a rule?” 

‘^Five or six francs; of course, you know, there are good 
and bad days.” 

‘^Oh!” said the notary, ^Mt is a very good trade, then; 
with five francs per day, a man can easily save four or five 
hundred francs per annum.” 

Do you think so?” asked Salvator, playing with Baratteau 
as a cat plays with a mouse. 

Of course you can! Look, for instance, at me. I was 
head clerk in this very office. I managed to save two thou- 
sand francs out of my salary, which was twelve thousand. 
Economy, my dear fellow — economy is a great virtue; there is 
no happiness without economy. I was young, then, and I 
had my little follies like others, but I never touched my sav- 
ings; I lent nothing, and I had no debts. With steadfast 
principles like these, a man can always insure himself a 
retreat for his old age. Who can say that you yourself may 
not be a millionaire?” 

^‘Who, indeed?” said Salvator. 

Yes; but, in the meantime, you are inconvenienced, I 
fancy; you need a little extra cash, and you remembered old 
Baratteau, and you said to yourself, ^ He is a good fellow who 
will help me out of a tight place.’ ” 

*‘Upon my word,” answered Salvator, ‘"you read my 
thoughts wonderfully.” 

‘^Alasl” said the notary, sententiously, we are uufortu- 


ROSE-DE-NOEt. 


153 


nately too well accustomed to hearing the woes of others. 
Hardly a day passes that a dozen or more poor devils do not 
come to me with some cock-and-bull story, and I am com- 
pelled to put them out of the door.” 

“Yes,” Salvator replied; “ I saw when I arrived that such 
was your habit.” 

“But what can one do? It would require the treasure- 
chest of a Rothschild to give to all who ask. But yon, of 
course,” Baratteau hastened to add, “'do not belong to such 
as these. You are the natural son of the Marquis de Val- 
geneuse, and I am truly glad to serve you. How much do 
you want?” And the notary drew out the drawer of his 
desk, in which he kept his money. 

“ I want five hundred thousand francs,” said Salvator. 

The notary uttered a cry of terror, and nearly fell from his 
chair. 

“You are mad, my boy!” he cried, as he locked the 
drawer, and placed the key in his pocket. 

“I am no more mad than I am dead,” said the young man. 
“ I want five hundred thousand francs, and I must have them 
in twenty-four hours,” 

Baratteau turned an agonized countenance toward Salvator; 
he expected to see him rush toward him with a dagger or a 
pistol in his hand. 

But Salvator remained quietly seated in his chair, while his 
face expressed benevolence and tranquillity. 

“ You have certainly lost your wits, young man,” said 
Baratteau. 

But Salvator continued as if he had not heard, 

“ I need, by nine o’clock to-morrow morning,” and Sal- 
vator spoke very slowly and distinctly, “five hundred thou- 
sand francs. Do you understand?” 

The notary shook his head despairingly, like a man who 
says to himself: “ Poor fellow, he has no sense!” 

“You hear?” asked Salvator. 

“ But, my boy,” said Baratteau,* who heard but did not un- 
derstand, though he vaguely scented a danger hidden under 
the coolness of the young man, “how do you think it possible 
that, even for the sake of your father, whose memory I rever- 
ence, and for whom I had a great affection; how could I, I 
ask, a poor notary, lend you a sum like that?” 

“I used the wrong word,” answered Salvator, “I should 
have said restitution. I therefore claim five hundred thou- 
sand francs as restitution.” 


154 




Restitution!” repeated the trembling Yoice of the notary, 
who now began to understand why the Marquis de Valgeneuse 
had closed tlie door behind him. 

‘‘Yes, sir, restitution;” repeated Sal?ator, coldly and firmly, 
for the third time. 

“But I don’t know what you mean?” said the notary, 
trembling from head to foot. 

“ Listen to me.” 

“ I am listening,” said the notary. 

“ The Marquis de Valgeneuse, my father,” answered Salva- 
tor, “sent for you seven years ago.” 

“Seven years ago!” repeated the notary, mechanically. 

“ On the 11th of June, 1821. Count them.” 

Tlie notary made no reply, and did not seem to busy him- 
self with the calculation. He sat still and waited. 

“ He sent for you,” continued Salvator, “ to intrust to you 
a will, in which, by adopting me as his son, he made me his 
sole heir.” 

“It is false!” cried the notary, turning green with terror. 
“I have read this will,” continued Salvator, without seem- 
ing to have heard Baratteau’s denial. “ There were two copies, 
both in my father’s handwriting; one of these copies he gave 
to you, the other disappeared. I have now come to you to 
ask for the document you received from him.” 

“ It is false— entirely false!” shouted the notary, trembling 
in every limb. “ I heard your father talk, of course, of his 
intention of executing such an instrument; but his death was 
so sudden that it is more than possible the will was never 
made. At all events, I never saw it!” 

“Will you swear this?” asked Salvator. 

“I give you my word of honor!” cried the notary, raising 
his hand as if in a court of justice. “I swear it before 


God!” 


“ Very well, sir; if you swear it before God, you. are the 
most infamous rascal that I ever saw.” 

“Monsieur Conrad!” shouted the notary, starting to his 
feet, as if about to rush on Salvator. 

But the latter caught his arm, and pushed him back into 
his chair as if he had been a child. 

The notary now fully comprehended why Salvator had 
closed the door. 

“ Once more,” said the young : * -• 


father.” 


you to tell the truth in regard 



EOSE-DE-2fOEL. 


155 


He made none! I swear that he made noneT cried the 
notary, almost sobbing. 

‘‘So be it. Monsieur Baratteaii. I admit, for the moment^ 
that you have no knowledge of this document,” 

Baratteau again breathed freely. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE CIVIL CODE AND THE PEKAL CODE STUDIED UNDER THE 
DIRECTION OF SALVATOR. 

Baratteau’s ease of mind was not of long duration; for, 
in a moment, Salvator said: 

“ Tell me, if you please, what the penalty may be for a 
public officer who conceals a will?” 

“ I do not know — I do not remember,” and Baratteau 
blinked uncomfortably under the fiery gaze of the young 
man. 

“ Well!” said Salvator, extending his hand toward a large 
volume, the leaves of which, or rather the edges of the leaves, 
were divided into five different colors, “ if you do not re- 
member, I will endeavor to refresh your recollection.” 

“ It is quite unnecessary!” exclaimed the notary. 

“I cannot agree with you,” answered Salvator, as he 
opened the Code. “ Although I am not a notary, I am 
familiar with this book, and can instantly find that sentence 
of which I am in search — Article 254 of the Penal Code, 
Book III.” 

Baratteau endeavored to silence Salvator, for he was per- 
fectly well acquainted with the article in question; but Sal- 
vator pushed away his hand, and turned over the pages until 
he found what he wanted. 

“ Article 254,” he said. “ Ah! yes; here it is!” 

The notary was compelled to listen: 

“ ‘As to the abstraction, destruction, or concealment of 
documents, of papers connected with criminal proceedings, 
or of other papers, registers, acts, or effects, contained in 
archives or public depositories, or confided to the care of any 
servant of the law — with reference to that capacity — the pen- 
alties against the clerk, notary, or other negligent recipient, 
will be not less than three months’ imprisonment, nor more 
than a year, and a fine of from one hundred francs to three 
hundred francs.’ ” 

“Pshaw!” said Baratteau to himself, “if it come to the 


156 


ROSE-DE-KOEL. 


worst — a year’s imprisonment and a fine of five hundred 
francs— I shall still have made a good affair out of it!” 

"Salvator read the man’s face as if it had been an open 
book. 

AVait a bit, good Master Baratteau,” he said. There is 
another article on the same subject.” 

Baratteau heaved a sigh. 

^‘Article 255,” continued Salvator; and he read: ‘ WhO' 
ever is found guilty of abstraction, concealment, or destruc- 
tion, as defined m the preceding article,, will be punished by 
sequestration.’” 

Pshaw!” said the notary, they may call it sequestration 
or imprisonment, it is all the same to me. If they have 
found the other will, which seems to me impossible, as the 
old gentleman told me he had thrown it in the fire, I shall 
still have made a good thing of it!” 

But Salvator did not leave the good man long in this com- 
fortable state of mind. 

In fact, the position was not precisely what Baratteau sup- 
posed. 

Salvator read the second paragraph of Article 255: ^ If the 

crime is the act of the depositary himself, he will be sentenced 
to hard labor for life.’” 

The notary’s face changed so suddenly that Salvator thought 
him ill, and extended his hand to the bell- rope to summon 
assistance. 

But the notary stopped him. 

‘‘ What do you mean to do?” he asked. 

^^I am going to send for a physician; you seem to me far 
from well, my dear sir.” 

‘‘It is nothing; take no notice of it. I am subject to 
similar attacks. I have been hard at work to-day, and have 
taken no time to eat.” 

“ You made a great mistake, let me tell you, then,” said 
the young man. “ Wort is an excellent thing, but one’s 
health is of the first importance, and if you want some break- 
fast I will wait patiently until you have finished. We will 
resume our conversation later.” 

“No, no; go on now!” the notary said, impatiently. 
“You can’t have much more to say to me; please take 
notice, however — it is a mere observation that I make, not a 
reproach-— that for the last ten minutes you have been talking 
to me as if I were a criminal, and you a judge. Bet us have 
done with all of this, I beg of you.” 


KOSE-DE-XOEL. 


157 


^^Ahl dear Monsieur Baratteau/’ cried Salvator, ^Mt is not 
I who have extended this conversation — it is you who persist 
in making all sorts of difficulties.” 

‘‘ But you used a most insulting expression to me a few 

minutes since ” 

Yes, I know; I said you were ” 

“ It is unnecessary to repeat it,” interrupted the notary. 

I consent to forget, and even out of regard to your late 
father, to renew my offers of kindly assistance — hut, of 
course, not to the extent you name. Make your request in a 
more reasonable form, and I will see what I can do. But, of 
course, I can’t give you what I haven’t got!” 

‘‘In order to abridge our interview, according to your de- 
sire,” resumed Salvator, “ I pass rapidly over Article 255, of 
the Penal Code, to Articles 1382 and 1383, of the Civil Code, 
Book III., Chapter ii. Ah! here it is.” 

The notary tried to speak, but Salvator gave him no time. 

He read aloud: 

“ ‘Article 1382. — Whatever losses are caused one man by 
the negligence of another, that man is obliged to repair.’ 

“ ‘Article 1383.— Each man is responsible for the injury 
he has caused, not 'only by his actual act, but also by his 
negligence or imprudence.’^” 

Salvator looked up, with his finger laid on these words. 

“ You see,” he said, “to what the law condemns unfaithful 
guardians; I do not now speak of civil death, of the loss of 
the rights of a citizen, that, of course, is included in the 
whole. But now that I have recalled this law to your mem- 
ory, permit me to repeat my demand: Will you kindly have 
ready for me to-morrow morning, at this hour, five hundred 
thousand francs?” 

“ Good heavens!” cried the notary, beating his head against 
his desk as if it were a stone wall, “your demand is simply 
insane. Upon my word, I begin to believe myself the victim 
of a nightmare.” 

“Keassnre yourself, my good sir; you are perfectly wide 
awake, as I will prove to you.” 

The notary shivered in his boots; he did not know what 
Salvator was about to say — but he trembled instinctively. 

“Once more,” said the young man, “will you swear that 
you have never received nor seen the will of the Marquis de 
Valgeneuse?” 

“ Yes; I swear before God and before man, that I have 
never received nor seen any such instrument.” 


168 


EOSE-DE-KOEL. 


‘‘Well, then,” Salvator replied, coldly and calmly, as he 
took a paper from his pocket, “I repeat, in order that you 
may not forget the words, that you are the most infamous 
rascal that I have ever seen — look at this!” 

And Salvator, pushing M. Baratteau back— for the notary 
looked as if ready to spring at his throat — showed him the in- 
strument he had already' shown, as will be remembered, tc 
M. Loredan de Valgeneuse, in the Cabaret de Ch^tillon. 
where Jean Taureau and his friend Toussaint-Louverture had 
so roughly carried the poor gentleman. 

Then he read these lines written on the envelope; 

“ ' This is the duplicate copy of my will, of which the sec-, 
ond copy will be deposited in the hands of Monsieur Pierre- 
Nicolas. Baratteau, Rue de Varennes, Paris. Each of these 
copies is written with my own hand, and is equally valuable. 

“ ‘ Marquis de Valgeneuse. 

July 11th, 1824.’” 

“He says ‘will be,”^ the notary exclaimed, “not ‘is.’” 

“That is true; “but here I notice a word which settles 
that difficulty. ” 

And he moved his thumb so that Baratteau could read, 
with the sweat of agony on his brow, this one word, written 
below the lines we have quoted : 

“ Received, 

“ P. N. Baratteau.” 

This precious signature was accompanied by one of those 
flourishes which notaries so dearly love. 

Baratteau tried to snatch this paper from Salvator’s hands, 
as in similar circumstances Loredan de Valgeneuse had tried 
to do; but Salvator, divining his intention, caught his arm 
with such force that he cried, in a supplicating voice: 

“Ah! Monsieur Conrad, you are breaking my arm!” 

“Scoundrel!” said Salvator, releasing him with an air 
disgust; “and you swore before God and man that you never 
saw or received the will of the Marquis de Valgeneuse!” 

Then folding his arms, he looked at the cowering wretch. 

“I wonder,” he said, contemplatively, “to what length 
the torpor of the human conscience can extend. I see here 
before me a villain who believed for some time that, in conse- 
quence of his crime, an unfortunate young man of twenty- 
five or twenty-six blew out his brains; and this villain went 
on his way, his life undarkeued by remorse, and accepted 


ROSE-DE-NOEL. 


159 

the respect and consideration of his neighbors as his right. 
He lived as other men live; he had a wife, children, and 
friends. He laughed, ate, and slept, without once saying to 
himself that he ought to be at the galleys or in prison. This 
is a strange warld, and the society that offers us such mon- 
strosities stands indeed in need of great reform.” 

Then, changing his tone, he said, frowningly: 

“Now let us bring this interview to an end. My father 
left me by his will the whole of his estate, personal and real. 
You owe me, then, as restitution and reparation, the amount 
of my father’s property, estimated at four millions; also the 
interest of these four millions for seven years. Not com- 
pounding this interest, you owe me to-day, in accordance 
with Articles 1382 and 1383, the comfortable sum of five 
million four hundred thousand francs. You see that my de- 
mand is more reasonable and more modest than you had any 
reason to expect, and does not constitute the tenth part of 
my fortune. Let me have it, therefore, at once, and let us 
finish this wretched business.” 

The notary did not appear to have heard him. He sat 
with his eyes fixed on the ground, his arms hanging stiff by 
his side like the arms of a manikin. He looked crushed 
and wretched, like a criminal in the presence of the punish- 
ing archangel on the Judgment-day. 

Salvator struck him on his shoulder to arouse him, saying, 
as he did so: 

“What are you dreaming of?” 

The notary started as if he felt the grasp of a policeman. 
He raised his haggard, wandering eyes, then dropped his 
head once more on his breast and resumed his mournful, 
despairing attitude. 

“ Rascal!” said Salvator, for the sight of this man inspired 
him with the most intense disgust; “ speak now, and quickly. 
I have told you, and I mean what I say, that I must have 
five hundred thousand francs by nine o’clock to-morrow 
morning. ” 

“It is impossible!” muttered the notary, without lifting 
his head, fearing to encounter the young man’s eyes. 

“Are you serious in that assertion?” asked Salvator. “ A 
man like you ought not to be embarrassed for a sum like 
this. I must have it, I repeat.” 

“I swear ” the notary began. 

“Another oath!” said Salvator, with a smile of supreme 
contempt; “this is the third within a half hour, and I be- 
lieve this no more than I did the two others. For the last 


160 


ROSE-DE-KOEL. 


time, I ask you, will you, or will you not, give me the five 
hundred thousand francs that I require?’’ 

Yes, if you will give me a month to find them.” 

“I have already told you that to-morrow, at nine o’clock, 

I required this money — not at ten, for that would be too 
late.” 

‘‘Give me a week.” 

“ Not one hour, I tell you!” 

“It is impossible!” cried the notary, despairingly. 

“ Then there is but one thing for me to do,” Salvator an- 
swered, going toward the door. 

Seeing the young man make this movement, the notary 
gathered himself together, and made one bound between the 
door and Salvator. 

“ For God’s sake,” he cried, “do not disgrace me!” 

^ But, turning away his head, as if from an unpleasant 
sight, Salvator pushed him aside, and continued on his way. 

The notary now laid his hand on the lock. 

“Monsieur Conrad,” he cried, ‘Mn your father’s name — 
for he was my friend — spare me this disgrace.” And he 
uttered these last words in so faint a voice that they could 
hardly be distinguished. 

Salvator was unmoved. 

“Let me pass,” he said, sternly. 

“ One word, sir; it is not only civil death, it is death real 
and absolute, that will enter by that door if you pass through 
it with such terrible intentions. I tell you, not only that I 
will not survive my shame, but also that I shall not wait for 
ft — I shall blow out my brains before your foot leaves the 
stairs.” 

“ You!” said Salvator, turning and facing him with an air 
of scorn; “ it would be the only good action of your life, 
then! But you won’t do it.” 

“I shall kill myself,” said the notary, “and in dying, I 
shall carry my fortune with me. While, in according me a 
little time ” 

“You are an idiot,” answered Salvator.” Will not my 
cousin Loredan de Valgeneuse be responsible for you, as you 
are now for him? Let me pass, I tell you.” 

The notary dropped on the floor, and clasping Salvator’s 
knees, he cried: 

“ Pity, my good Monsieur Conrad, pity!” 

“ Out of the way, wretch!” said the young man, repulsing 
him with his foot. And he took another step toward the 
door. 


ROSE-DE*XOEL. 


161 


will do it, then, sir. I will consent to your wishes,’^ 
cried the notary, seizing the velvet coat of 'the commission naire 
to detain him. 

It was time, for Salvator held the handle in his hand. 

“ Very good!” said Salvator, returning to his place near the 
chimney, while the notary took his seat at his desk again, 
and, uttering a long sigh, seemed disposed to fall into his 
former state of apathy. 

But Salvator had no intention of allowing this. 

We must make haste now. Have you the sum, or value 
representing the sum, with you now?” 

‘‘I have a hundred thousand francs,” said the notary. And 
opening his safe, he took out the money. 

‘'And for the other four hundred thousand?” asked 
Salvator. 

“ I have here what is equivalent to eight hundred thousand, 
but they are in bonds, notes, and certificates of stock.” 

“Very good. You have the day before you, and they must 
be turned into money at once. Only I warn you that I re- 
quire this money in bills of one thousand or five thousand 
francs. 

“Just as you please.” 

“Then give me the money in thousand-franc notes.” 

“ Just as you please,” repeated the notary; “you want the 
money, you say ” 

“ To-morrow, before nine o’clock.” 

“ You can have it to-night.” 

“So much the better.” 

“ Where will you be to receive it?” 

“ The Kue Macon, No. 4. 

“ Will you tell me under what name I am to ask for you? 
I presume that you do not bear your own, as you are supposed 
to be dead.” 

“ Yon will ask for Monsieur Salvator.” 

“ I promise you, sir,” said the notary solemnly, “ that I 
will be with you to-night at nine o’clock.” 

“Oh! I do not doubt it,” answered Salvator, 

“ But may I hope, my good Monsieur Conrad, that after 
I have executed your orders to your satisfaction, that I shall 
have nothing more to fear from you?” 

“My conduct will be regulated by yours, sir. I think 
that for a time I shall not disturb you. My fortune is too 
well placed in your haads for me to care to disturb it. I 
leave with you, therefore, four million nine hundred thousand 
francs. Use tliem if 3^ou please, but do not trifle with them.” 


KOSE-DE-KOEL. 


1Cj2 

Ah! Monsieur le Marquis, you have saved my life!” cried 
Baratteau, liis eyes filling with grateful tears. 

'‘That may be!” said Salvator. And he left the room 
where his heart had swelled so often with shame and disgust. 


CHAPTEK XXVIL 

THE AEROLITE. 

The night following the scene we have related, the 
Boulevard des Invalides was silent and deserted; the wind 
rustled through the many trees which made the street as 
shady as the forest of Ardennes. 

The tourist who entered Paris in this direction, would cer- 
tainly have thought himself leagues away from a great city; 
the four Ions: rows of tall, strong trees, partially lighted by 
the moon, suggested an army of giant soldiers, guarding the 
walls of a Babylonian city. 

But the one person upon whom the shadows fell did not 
seem to feel any of this surprise. He walked up and down 
the avenue, like a man to whom the place was perfectly fa- 
miliar, and who was obliged for some important reason to lin- 
ger there, avoiding, however, as much as' possible those places 
where the moonlight was brightest. 

At first one would have found it difficult to say to what 
class of society this person belonged; but studying him with 
more attention, and noticing the minute observation he be- 
stowed first on one object and then another, it was finally 
easy to decide that it was on the windows of the Oomtesse 
Bappt that he bestowed most attention. Gliding along close 
to the wall, and advancing his head with precaution until it 
touciied the bars, he plunged his scrutinizing gaze into the 
thickly wooded garden. 

Only two men in the world could have had a:iy motive for 
walking at midnight to and fro past Regina’s gate— a rob- 
ber or a lover. 

A lover, because he is above the laws; a robber, because he 
is below them. 

Now, the man in question did not look like a lover. 

Then too, the only lover who could have a motive for lin- 
gering here was Petrus, and we know that Salvator had en- 
joined on him to keep away from that enchanted spot. 

Let us also state that Petrus had religiously observed this 
order of Salvator, which had been most imperative. 


EOSE-DE-XOEL. 


163 


It is true that Salvator had stopped at his studio that 
night, and shown him the money which, in accordance with 
his promise, the notary Baratteau had brought to him 
punctually at nine o’clock. 

As we said, the nocturnal visitor did not look like a 
lover; let us add, that he was not in the least like Petrus. 

He was a man of medium size, and decidedly round shoul- 
dered. He wore a long coat that came down to his heels, 
it looked more like a Persian’s robe than an ordinary coat. 
His hat was low in the crown with a very broad brim, that 
made him look like a Protestant minister or an American 
Quaker, and finally hiS face was covered with a thick growth 
of hair, which came up almost as high as his eyebrows. 

As he was not Petrus, he must be Comte Ercolano. 

As he was not a lover, he must be a robber. 

He was both Comte Ercolano and a robber. 

This point being clearly settled, our readers will know who 
he was, and why the gate of the Comtesse Rappt’s garden at-^ 
tracted his attention so particularly. 

On reaching the boulevard, about half past ten, he had ex- 
plored it thoroughly, and then retired into a shady corner, 
where he watched until the last person had passed through 
this deserted street. When finally assured that he was mas- 
ter of the place, he began to pace up and down the pavement 
next the wall of the Comtesse Rappt’s garden. 

He could be surprised from three directions, and it was to 
avoid this triple danger that he had come early to conceal 
himself near the gate, the better to study the means of at- 
tack and how to oppose them most effectually. 

He could be approached from the left or the right; they 
could fall upon him suddenly, while he exchanged the let- 
ters for the notes; but a man like the one we have seen was 
not likely to be attacked unexpectedly. 

We have said that the Comte Ercolano had carefully 
studied every corner, and was sure that there was no ambus- 
cade; besides — for the Comte Ercolano was a man of great 
foresight — he wore under his long coat a belt, in which was 
thrust a pair of pistols and a long slender poniard. He 
might hope, therefore, to defend his fortune, or, at all events, 
to sell it so dearly, that those who attacked him would 
most heartily repent. Consequently, he had nothing to fear 
from this side. 

On the other, however, the danger was greater; for there, 
on the Rue Plumet, was the great door of the Hotel de la 
Mothe-Houdan/where all the carriages stopped; within the 


164 


EOSE-I)E-NOEL. 


hotel, behind the door, might be concealed a half dozen stout 
fellows, armed with guns, sabers, and halberds — for in bis 
foresight, the Comte Ercolaiio dreamed of the most fan- 
tastic arms — and these half dozen stout fellows might burst 
out upon him while he was transacting his little matter of 
business. 

But fertile as was the imagination of the Comte Ercolano, 
he was not the man to be long deterred by such obstacles. 

He stole along the sidewalk, therefore, to explore the Rue 
Plumet as he had explored the boulevard, and after assuring 
himself that the street was entirely deserted, he again exam- 
ined the door which he had examined the previous evening. 

The aim of this examination was to assure himself that no 
change had taken place in its appearance within twenty-four 
hours. 

The door was an immense one of oak, opening in the 
middle. It had four panels, and on each side, between the 
upper and lower panels, was a large iron ball as big as an 
orange. Comte Ercolano began by pulling at these balls to 
assure himself that they were steadfast, after which he drew 
from his pocket an iron instrument which would have been a 
perfect 8, if the extremities of this 8 had presented at the 
top and at the base a perfect circle instead of an oval, and if 
these two circles, instead of touching each other, had not been 
a certain distance apart, which gave this instrument, seen 
vertically, the following appearance: 

O 

O 

He applied this 8 or this S to the two balls on the door; that 
is to say, he placed each of these balls within one of the 
extremities of this singular instrument, which clamped the 
buttons with so much precision, and so closely, that the 
Count smiled with an air of proud satisfaction. 

In fact, this ingenious invention, applied to the door with- 
out, had precisely the same effect as iron bars placed within; 
that is to say, that four horses could not have opened it. 

But the third peril, and the greatest, although it came 
from the hotel, did not come from the Rue Plumet. The 
gate was, in reality, the place of the most danger to the con- 
spirator, and it was precisely at this gate that the conference 
was to take place. 

As soon, therefore, as his instrument was applied to the 
door on the Rue Plumet, Comte Ercolano returned to the 


ROSE-DE-KOEL. 


165 


boulevard, which he again inspected with the most minute 
attention, for the important hour was approaching. 

A quarter to twelve struck, and there was no time to lose. 

The adventurer passed - the gate several times, looking, as 
he had done before, steadily into the garden, where the bushes 
were almost as close as the underbrusli in a wood. Favored 
by the moon, the Count became assured that there was no one 
in the garden; nevertheless, it would be a very simple thing 
for this deserted garden to suddenly bristle with men armed 
to their teeth. At all events, this was the idea of oui 
friend. 

He shook each separate bar of the gate to assure himself 
that, like the bolts on the door, they retained their usual 
firmness. In other words, he wished to convince himself 
that, by the aid of one of these bars, lifted at a concerted 
signal, his life would not be threatened. 

He became certain, after a prolonged examination, that 
they were all steady. 

Then there was the small door within the gate; this, too, 
demanded caution. Our friend shook it with a vigorous 
arm, but it stood the onslaught firmly. 

He found that it was not only closed but locked. He 
acquired this certainty by passing his arm through the gate 
and feeling that the latch of the small door was firmly em- 
bedded in the staple, and the staple riveted to the wall. 

^‘Nevertheless,’’ he said, after vainly attempting to thrust 
his head through the gate, “I have no great confidence in 
staples, for alas! I have seen so many fall around me.” 

As he spoke, he drew from his pocket a chain some four 
or five feet long. This he passed around the staple and then 
through one of the bars and back again to the staple and 
handle, then bringing the two ends of the chain together, he 
made one of those knots called sailors’ knots, without remem- 
bering (for a man can’t always remember everything) that this 
knot made by Comte Ercolano might greatly compromise the 
worthy Captain Monte-Hauban, 

“May Balthazar Casmajou, who taught me the first ele- 
ments of the locksmith’s trade, be placed in heaven among 
the elect!” murmured the grateful adventurer, as he added a 
padlock for greater safety to the two ends of the chain. 

And he lifted his eyes to the starry skies in pious thank- 
fulness. 

As his eyes dropped again, he beheld, not three feet off, a 
white shadow. 


166 


EOSE-DE-KOEL. 


It was the Comtesse Eappt. 

The Angel of Eepose, who watches aronnd the tombs of 
the departed, never trod the turf more lightly than did this 
fair creature. 

She had nearly reached the gate without Comte Ercolano 
hearing or seeing her. 

Although he was fully prepared for this rencontre, the 
sudden appearance of Regina produced upon him the effect 
of an apparition. He felt a shock as if he had touched a 
galvanic battery, and started back with a look around him 
as if this vision were the signal of danger. 

Seeing nothing but this white form, hearing nothing but 
the murmur of the wind among the trees, he went a step 
nearer, but suddenly checked himself. 

It may be a man in disguise, and he may fire a pistol- 
shot! I have heard of such things.” 

Is it yon, madame?” he asked, slipping behind a tree. 

‘‘It is I,” answered Regina, in a voice so sweet that all 
suspicion vanished from the mind of the adventurer. 

He came out from behind the tree, and approaching the 
gate, he said, with a low bow: 

“ I am your most humble servant.” 

But as Regina had not come there to exchange pretty 
speeches with Comte Ercolano, she contented herself with a 
slight inclination of the head, and extending her arm to the 
gate, she said : 

“Here are the first fifty thousand francs. You can sat- 
isfy yourself that the notes are good.” 

“lam quite sure they are,” answered the scoundrel, as he 
thrust them into his pocket. 

Then looking around him, he drew out a letter which he 
handed the Princess. 

She, less confiding than the Count, took the letter and 
opened it in the moonlight, to make sure that it was her 
writing; she then put it into her breast, and gave the ad- 
venturer a second package of bank-notes. 

“Thanks, madame,” said the Count, hiding them away 
without counting them. 

“ Let us hasten, if you please,” said Regina, as she took 
the next letter with supreme disgust, examining it as before, 
— an examination which was satisfactory, probably, as she 
handed him another bundle of notes. 

This exchange went on until the sixth letter had been re- 
ceived; at this moment the adventurer fancied that he heard 


KOSE-DE-KOEL. 


1C7 

a sound like the rustle of foliage; slight as it was, he started, 
all the more because the noise was unintelligible to him. 

‘‘ One moment, Princess,” he exclaimed, in a loud whisper; 

it seems to me that something is going on about me that I 
do not understand.” 

As he said this, the moonlight flashed on a pistol that he 
held in his hand. Seeing this, Regina uttered a faint cry, 
which, faint as it was, the adventure? thought might be a 
signal. 

And the Count dashed down the sidewalk a short distance 
to satisfy himself. 

“Good heavens!” said Regina to herself; “suppose he 
should not come back!” 

And she watched him with her heart in her mouth. 

The bandit made a most careful investigation, still holding 
his pistol in his hand. 

He crossed the street, looking up and down as far as he 
could see; turned around the corner into the Rue Plumet, to 
assure himself that the door was barricaded as he had left it. 

He found everything unchanged. 

“ I certainly heard a peculiar noise,” he said to himself, 
as he returned to the gate. “ It was something wrong, J am 
sure. Suppose I should go away now! It might be the best 
thing I could do. I have a nice little sum in my pocket; 
but then, on the other side, the two hundred thousand francs 
would be quite comfortable.” 

Then, looking around with an air that indicated that he 
was becoming reassured, he said: 

“ After all, I don’t know why I should be disturbed by a 
Tittle noise like that. The affair is going too well for me to 
throw it over; we will resume the conversation where we 
dropped it.” 

And the adventurer, with a furtive glance to the right and 
the left, slunk back like a hyena to the gate where poor 
Regina, trembling at the idea that the scoundrel had fled 
with her last four letters, was standing with teeth set, and 
wringing her hands in despair. ’ 

She drew a long breath of relief as she beheld the advent- 
urer approaching. 

“ Oh, Father in heaven!” she murmured, “I thank thee!” 

** Excuse my abrupt departure, madame,” said the Count, 
‘‘but I thought I heard a threatening noise; but now, if you 
please, we can go on with our business. Here is your seventh 
letter.” 

“ And here is your seventh package.” 


168 


EOSE-BE-KOEL. 


The Oomte Ercolano took it, and while he placed it in his 
pocket, E6gina examined this letter as she had done the 
others. 

** Upon my word,’’ thought the adventurer, as he extended 
the eighth letter, “ this Comtesse Rappt is really a most sus- 
picious person. I thought I had conducted this affair in the 
most courteous manner.” 

Drawing out the ninth letter, he said, as a punishment for 
her suspicions: 

Ninth epistle from the same to the same.” 

Regina’s face, which was as pale as the moon that lighted 
it, flushed carnation red at this insult. She examined this 
letter, however, with the same care as the others, and con- 
cealed it in her breast. 

. Then, in a sulky tone, the Count said: 

Tenth and last. At the same price as the others, though 
in reality it is worth as much as the other nine; but of course 
I shall adhere to the conditions.” 

** Of course,” answered Regina, as she gave him the last 
package of money with one hand while she took the letter 
with the other. 

Your confidence honors me!” said the adventurer, as he 
grasped the money and released the letter. 

He drew a long breath of delight, but Regina made no 
sound. She examined this letter as she, had the other nine. 

And now,” continued the impudent rascal, it is my 
duty, Madame la Comtesse, to give you, in return for the 
wealth you have bestowed on me, the advice of a man of the 
world, who knows something of gallantry: Love as much as 
you please; but never write.” 

Go, sir! Not another word!” cried the Countess, as she 
turned away hurriedly. ‘‘ We are quits!” 

At the same moment, and, as if these words were a signal 
between herself and some superior power, Comte Ercolano 
felt fall upon his head, as if from the sky, an object of such 
size and weight that the adventurer was extended on the 
ground before he knew that he had fallen. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

WHICH PROVES THAT ILL GAINS NEVER PROFIT. 

All this took place so rapidly that the adventurer was 
never afterward able to recall what occurred. He felt simply 
that an irresistible force drew his hands together behind hia 


ROSE-DE-KOEL. 169 

back, and united them in an instrument which was very like 
his own ingenious invention now on the door in the Eue 
Plumet. 

When this precaution was taken, and the Comte Ercolano 
was rendered as inoffensive as a baby, he was lifted on his 
feet, the position most natural to men. 

The Count naturally did his best to ascertain who his 
enemy might be, but he could see no one; for the man, if it 
were a man, kept behind him. But while one hand of this 
man held his own, the Count felt the other wandering over 
his person. 

This hand stopped at his belt, took out one of the pistols 
and flung it over the wall, then the other. The dagger fol- 
lowed the pistols. Then, apparently satisfied that these were 
the only arms carried by the Count, the hand made its way 
to the throat, and began to press it, slowly and steadily in- 
creasing the pressure. 

But as the grasp on the throat increased, that of the hands 
relaxed, so that the Comte Ercolano recovered the use of his 
hands to some extent, while losing that of his voice. 

Perhaps some one will be anxious to know how this human 
aerolite, who placed the Comte Ercolano in so embarrassing 
a position, could have escaped detection by a man so accus- 
tomed to explorations of a similar nature. To this question 
we can only say that, like a materialist as he was, Comte 
Ercolano had been so occupied with the earth that he could 
look no higher. The aerolite had fallen from the sky, or at 
least from among the branches and thick foliage of the chest- 
nut-trees hanging over Regina’s garden gate. 

If our readers wish to know who this inopportune aerolite 
may be, who, in a fashion so disagreeable to our adventurer, 
had dropped upon his shoulders, and whose hand now fingered 
his throat so uncomfortably, we can only say, what they prob- 
ably suspect, that this aerolite was none other than our old 
acquaintance, Barthelemy Belong, otherwise known as Jean 
Taureau, 

When Salvator left Petrus that night at two o’clock, after 
reassuring the young artist by showing him the five hundred 
thousand francs, he went at once to Jean Taureau, who, on 
seeing him, immediately offered, as usual, to bestow upon 
him several days’ or even a week’s work. 

. ‘‘I only ask an evening,” said Salvator. 

Then informing him that he required his strong right 
arm, and giving him no other explanation, he made an ap- 


170 


KOSE-DE-NOEL. 


poiutment with him for the next night at nine o’clock, on 
the Boulevard des Invalides. 

There he showed him a thick chestnut- tree, overhanging 
the gates of the hotel, and said to him: 

‘‘ You will climb that tree. You will stay there, without 
.moving or making the smallest noise, until midnight. At 
that time, or perhaps a little sooner, you will see a man 
walking up and down before the gate; you will watch him 
attentively, but you must not move, whatever he does. When 
the clock strikes twelve, a lady will appear on the other side 
of the gate. She will talk over some business with this man, 
and, in exchange for ten letters, will give him ten packages 
of bank-notes. You will not interfere. When the tenth 
package has been handed him, the lady will say, ‘ We are 
quits!’ As soon as these words have passed her lips, you 
will tumble from the tree down upon this man. You will 
take him by the throat and squeeze it until he surrenders the 
money. After that you can do with him as you please — hurt 
him a little, if you think best, but don’t murder him out- 
right, unless it is quite necessary.” 

My readers will admit that Jean Taureau faithfully ex- 
ecuted the orders of Salvator up to a certain point. We will 
see how he carried out the rest. 

We left Jean Taureau suffocating the Comte Ercolano. 
He continued to choke him until the Count’s tongue lolled 
from his mouth. 

‘‘Now, then,” said Jean Taureau, having prudently dis- 
armed his adversary — “now we will talk.” 

Comte Ercolano made a faint sound. 

“You consent, do you? Very good,” said Barthelemy, 
who interpreted in his own fashion the Count’s groan. “ Now, 
then, you will restore to me your ill-gotten gains — all that 
you received from that lady,” 

The adventurer started, but he did not reply, even by a 
groan, to this demand. 

Should he be choked if he refused? 

Jean Taureau repeated his demand and shut his hand a 
little harder. 

Comte Ercolano, whose hands were free, caught at the col- 
lar of his opponent. 

“Down with your paws!” cried Jean Taureau; and with 
the tips of his fingers he gave the Count’s wrist a slap that 
nearly crushed it. 

Perhaps the reader will ask why Jean Taureau, instead of 
exacting from the Count an act so contrary to his habits and 


ROSE-DE-KOEL. 


in 


fio pahiful as the restoration of anything he had appropriated, 
did not take it himself from his pocket; it would have been 
no more difficult than the taking of his pistols and his dag- 
ger from his waist and throwing them over the wall. To 
this question we will simply reply that Salvator said, You 
will take him by the throat and squeeze it until he surrenders 
the money.” 

Jean Taureau, a faithful interpreter and obedient servant, 
would not, therefore, take, but waited for the money to be 
surrendered. To khis end, be gave another squeeze to the 
throat of the Count, in order to hasten the deno4m'ent. 

‘‘ You won’t answer, then?” said Jean Taureau, forgetting 
the impossibility of his victim replying, and attributfng the 
silence to obstinacy. 

The Count threw out his arms in a desperate sort of way. 
This gesture struck Jean Taureau, and he wondered if it 
were possible that the Count literally could not speak. 

He half turned around as this idea struck him, and discov- 
ered that the adventurer’s face was purple and his tongue 
hanging from his mouth. 

Jean Taureau instantly grasped the situation. 

“It is his own fault, anyhow,” and he tightened his grasp 
a little. 

A thousand flashes passed before the Count’s eyes. He 
had made a courageous resistance, but could do no more. 
On feeling this last pressure, he carried his hand to his pocket, 
and threw down on the ground nine packages of the notes. 

Jean Taureau loosened his hand without releasing the 
throat of the adventurer, who drew in a long breath. 

With tlie fresh air that entered the Count’s lungs, there 
came also a hope into his heart. 

When he put his hand into his pocket for the bank-notes, 
the Comte Ercolano had felt in the bottom of this pocket a 
penknife, an ordinary one, which at any other time he would 
have despised, but which now, under existing circumstances, 
might become an anchor of safety. 

This was why he had thrown on the ground nine bundles 
of bank-notes instead of ten; while feeling in his pocket for 
the tenth, he flattered himself that he could open the knife, 
and when this was done, that he could speedily restore the 
equilibrium between himself and the adversary. 

Jean Taureau, without re’ easing his prey, counted the 
packages, and seeing only nine, demanded the tenth. 

“ Let me feel in my pocket; it must be there,” said the 
rascal in a stifled voice. 


172 . 


EOSE-BE-KOEL. 


right! feel in yonr pocket, then.” 

‘^Eelease me. What can I do when you hold me like 
that?” 

When I have the ten bundles I will release you,” an- 
swered Jean Tanreau. 

‘‘Here it is, then,” said the villain, as he threw the tenth 
package on the ground with tlie others, but' at the same 
time opening his knife in the depths of his pocket. 

Jean Taureau had said that when he had received the tenth 
package he would release his foe, and he kept his word. 

The Count thought that when the carpenter stooped to 
pick up the money, he could spring with one bound upon the 
Colossus, and stick thejcnifeinto his breast, but this idea was 
the maddest folly, for Jean Taureau had discovered the de- 
sign of his opponent, and watched the bank-notes with one 
eye without making an effort to secure them. 

He had seen the knife glitter in the hand of the Count, 
and calmly extended his own, which was stupendous. In a 
moment, by the simple pressure of the muscles of the fore- 
arm, the knife dropped from the hand of the Comte Erco- 
lano, at the same time that he tottered and fell back. 

Jean Taureau pressed his knee on the breast of his victim 
until he heard a crackling sound, accompanied by a rattle, in 
the throat. While in this attitude he busied himself with pick- 
ing up the bank-notes and putting them into his pocket. 

Suddenly he perceived that the enemy had not lost con- 
sciousness, but had nearly obtained possession of the knife, 
which was within reach. 

Jean Taureau was now out of patience, and, with a blow 
that would have murdered the animal from whom he took 
his name, he nailed, so to speak, the head of his enemy to the 
ground, saying, in a tone that would have been laughable had 
not the results been so grave: 

“ We’ll see if you can’t lie still!” 

This time the adventurer did lie still. He had fainted. 

Jean Taureau now leisurely counted the packages of notes; 
there were ten. 

He rose to his feet, then, and waited for the Comte Erco- 
lano to follow his example. At the end of five minutes he 
saw that he was waiting in vain. 

The Count gave no sign of life. 

Jean Taureau raised his hat — he was a very polite man, 
this Jean Taureau, in spite of his rough appearance — and 
saluted the adventurer respectfully. 

The Count was less polite than the carpenter, or he was 


ROSE-BE-KOEL 


173 


inca^Hible of returning this salutation by reason of haying 
fainted— at all events he did not move even a little dnger. 

Jean Tanreau looked at him again, and seeing that he per- 
sisted in his immobility, he tossed his left hand into'^he-^ir 
with a gesture that seemed to say: 

^*So much the worse for you, my man! You would have 
it so, however.” 

Then he walked off slowly, with his hands in his pockets, 
and with the calm air of having done his duty. 

The adventurer did not return to consciousness until long 
after Jean Taureau was asleep in his bed — that is to say, until 
dawn. 

The dew which is so beneficial to plants and flowers is none 
the less so apparently to human beings, for when it began to 
fall, Comte Ercolano sneezed violently as if he were getting a 
cold in his head. 

Five minutes later he moved his limbs, and then tried to 
rise, but fell back. After three or four useless efforts, he 
finally succeeded in gaining a sitting position. 

For a minute or two he seemed to be collecting his 
thoughts, and then, feeling in his pockets, he uttered a fright- 
ful oath. 

It was plain that his senses had returned, and his memory 
pointed out an abyss. 

This abyss was the pocket, w'hich not long before had held 
five hundred thousand francs; which was in fact equivalent 
to an income of twenty-five thousand livres. 

But, as the Comte Ercolano was a great philosopher, he at 
once reflected that, enormous as was his loss, it might have 
been much greater, since a little more and he would have lost 
with* his money his life, which was infinitely more precious. 

Now his life remained to him, a little shaken, to be sure, 
but he existed. 

He drew a series of long breaths with the intense enjoy- 
ment of a man who has been for a long time deprived of that 
satisfaction; after which he moved his neck several times in 
his cravat, as a man might do when the rope had broken by 
which he had been hung; then he wiped his brow with his 
sleeve, and, rising with difficulty, looked around him with a 
bewildered air, coughing with a painful contraction of the 
muscles of his breast, shook his head as if to say that it would 
be a long time before he could recover from the injuries he 
had received. He then crushed his hat down over his brows, 
and, without looking either to the right or the left, he fled 
as fast as his tottering limbs would permit, thanking Heaven 


174 


EOSE-DE-NOEL. 


thar it had preserved a life of which he could make such/^ood 
use for his own especial happiness. / 

And now we feel that we are doing an injustice t^the per- 
ception of our readers if we doubt for a moment chat they 
have recognized — in the amateur who introduced himself to 
Petrus, under the title of godfather, and under the name of 
Captain Berth and Monte-Hauban — in the Comte Ercolano, 
the adventurer and the swindler whom our friend Jean 
Taureau so nearly murdered — our old acquaintance, the man 
who, to the great Joy of Petrus, was walking, on Mardi-gras 
of this year, on the esplanade of the Observatory, wearing a 
pasteboard nose several inches in length. In short, it was 
Gibassier, who, taking advantage of the confidential position 
he occupied with M. Jackal, contrived to do a little business 
for himself, lucrative, if it was hazardous. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

IN WHICH FIFINE HOES A GREAT SERVICE TO SALVATOR. 

The day after these occurrences, toward six o’clock in the 
morning, Salvator entered the low door of the house occupied 
by Fifine and Jean Taureau. 

Before he reached the fourth floor, where the carpenter 
resided, Salvator heard the quarreling with which he was 
familiar. 

Mile. Fifine was pouring out the bitterest abuse, and the 
giant grumbling loudly. 

Salvator knocked at the door. 

Mile. Fifine, ,with her hair in disorder, her eyes starting 
out of her head, and her face scarlet with rage, opened the 
door. 

“I wish I could ever come here without interrupting you 
in a quarrel,” said Salvator, looking with severity at the 
woman. 

‘‘ It is he who is in the wrong,” said Fifine. 

She is a fiend!” cried Jean Taureau, rushing to Fifine, 
and raising his fist. 

Come, now!” said Salvator, half laughing, half frowning; 
^*it is too early in the morning to beat a woman, Jean Tau- 
reau. You have not the excuse of being drunk.” 

“ For this once, Monsieur Salvator,” growled the carpen- 
ter, ‘‘ I can’t obey you.” 

Jean Taureau was really frightful; his respiration sounded 


EOSE-DE-XOEL. 


175 


like the bellows of a forge; his lips were white and trembling; 
his bloodshot and angry. 

Mile. Fifine, who had often seen the giant in a rage, was, 
on this occasion, thoroughly frightened. She felt that she 
could be sated only through the intervention of Salvator. 

She rushed toward him, therefore, and entwined her long 
arms about him, crying: 

^^Save me. Monsieur Salvator; in the name of Heaven, 
save me!’’ 

Salvator disengaged himself with a gesture of disgust. He 
went up to Jean Taureau and seized his hands, as he said: 

What is it now?” 

Only, sir,” answered the Hercules, ‘^that she is a miser- 
able, deceitful creature worthy of the scaffold.” 

‘‘ But what has she done?” 

** In the first place, she is always in the street. She has 
made some new acquaintances in the quartier, so that she is 
never in the house.” 

“ As to that, my poor fellow, it is an old story. You ought 
to be accustomed to it by this time.” 

‘‘ But this is not all,” said the carpenter, grinding his 
teeth. 

^^What has she done, I say?” 

She has robbed me!” 

‘‘Bobbed you?” repeated Salvator, 

“Yes — she has taken all the money.” 

“Yesterday’s earnings, you mean?” 

“No, no! the money of last night, the five hundred thou- 
sand francs.” 

“ The five hundred thousand francs?” cried Salvator, turn- 
ing to interrogate Fifine, whom he supposed to be behind 
him. 

“She has the money about her, and I was just going to 
take it when you came in,” cried Jean Taureau. 

The two men uttered an exclamation, for both at the same 
moment became aware of Fifine’s disappearance. 

There was not a moment to lose, and they, without ex- 
changing a word, rushed to the stairs. 

Jean Taureau tumbled, rather than ran, down them. 

“To the left!” said Salvator. “I, myself, will goto the 
right.” 

Jean Taureau went as fast as his long legs would carry him 
in the direction of the esplanade of the Observatory. 

Salvator flew to the end of the Bue de la Bourbe, whence 
he could see in three directions — the Chantier des Oapucins 


m 


nOSE-DE-KOEL. 


on the right, before him the Kue Saint- Jacques, ana behipJ 
him the Faubourg. 7 

He looked as far as his eyes could see; but at thi^arly 
hour, the streets were deserted and the shops were still^losed. 
Mile. Fifine had .disappeared from sight, either in smae house, 
or had gotten out of the way with prodigious rapi>ufcy. 

What is to be done nov/?” Salvator asked Itself. 

Just at this moment, a milk-woman, on tlmcorner of the 
Rue Saint-Jacques arid the Rue de la Bourbq/before a wine- 
shop, called to him: 

Monsieur Salvator!” 

Salvator turned. 

‘‘ What do you wish?” he asked, pleasantly. 

You do not remember me, Monsiear Salvator?” 

'^No, I do not,” he replied, still lodking about. 

I am Magnelonne, of the Rue aux Fers,” said the milk- 
woman. J did not make any money selling flowers, and I 
have begun to sell milk.” 

I know you, now,” said Salvator; but just at this mo- 
ment I am in great haste and trouble. Have you seen a 
tall blonde girl pass?” 

^‘Running as if the fiends were after her? Yes, I have 
seen her.” 

And when?” 

‘‘A moment since.” 

What direction did she take?” 

The Rue Saint-Jacques.” 

Thanks!” cried Salvator, starting off in the direction in- 
dicated. 

Monsieur Salvator! Monsieur Salvator!” called the milk- 
woman, rising from her seat and hurrying to him. 

Wait a minute,” she cried, on reaching him* “ What 
do you want of her?”^ 

‘‘I want to catch her.” 

‘^And where are you going for that?” 

** Straight before me,” 

You have not far to go, then.” , 

Do you know what house she enteredP’ 

‘‘I certainly do.” 

Which is it, then?” 

^^The one where she goes every day without her man know- 
ing it,” answered the milk-woman, pointing with her finger 
to a building known in the street as the Petit-Bicetre,” 

You are sure?” 

‘^Perfectly sure.” 


kose-de-koel. 


177 


‘‘You know her, then?” 

is one of my customers.” 

And what is she doing there?” 

You must not ask such a question of a decent girU** 

‘^She goes to see some one there, then?” 

Yes— a i» an belonging to the police.” 

^‘What is hitname?” 

‘^Jambassier — Jubassier ” 

Gibassier!” cried Salvator. 

‘^Precisely,” the milk-woman exclaimed. 

‘^XJpon my word, tliis is providential,” murmured Salva- 
tor. I was looking for his address, and now Mademoiselle 
Fifine gives it to me. Ah, Monsieur Jackal, your axiom is 
correct — ‘Look for the woman!’ Thank you, Maguelonne. 
Your mother is quite well, I trust?” 

“ Yes, Monsieur Salvator, she is well, and is very thankful 
to you for having her admitted to the Incurables — the poor 
dear woman!” 

Salvator now escaped, and made his way toward the Petifc« 
Bic^tre. 

It was necessary to have lived some time in thelQuartier Saint- 
Jacques, and to have explored it in every way, to know tho 
obscure, squalid, and dirty lane then called the Petit-Bicetre. 
It was something like the dark, damp cellars of Lille, sup- 
posing one was set above the other. Salvator knew the place 
from having visited it more than once in his philanthropic in- 
vestigations. It was very easy, therefore, for him to make 
his way in this labyrinth. He ascended the five flights as 
quickly as possible. 

On the fifth floor, that is under the eaves, he saw eight or 
ten doors opening on the corridor. He listened at each suc- 
cessively. Hot hearing a sound, he was about to descend a 
flight when, through an opening in the staircase in which 
the window had been broken at some remote period, and had 
never been restored, he saw Fifine standing on the fifth 
floor of the next house. 

He ran lightly down the stairs and ascended the others with 
equal lightness and celerity, reaching Fifine, who was knock- 
ing at a door with great violence, without her having heard a 
sound. 

As she knocked, she called loudly: 

“ Open the door, Giba; it is I — it .s I!” 

But Giba did not open the door; he was not conquered hy 
the charm of the Italian abbreviat'on of his name. 

He had reached his room aftei four o’clock, and was stillj 


178 


ROSE-DE-XOEL. 




without doubt, dreaming of the danger he had escaped. >/He 
turned his face to the Avail, determined to sleep in ^te of 
the noise, and murmured to himself: ^ / 

Knock as much as you please; I shaVt stir.” / 

But Fifine was equally determined, and continwd to knock 
louder and louder, showering on her lover at toe same time 
the most tender epithets. 

She was thus occupied when she felt a h^nd laid quietly, 
but with authority, on her shoulder. She turned and saw 
Salvator. • / 

She instantly understood what he wanted, and opened her 
mouth to call for aid. 

“Silence, wretch!” said Salvator, “unless you prefer that 
I have you arrested and sent to prison at once.” 

“Arrested, and for what?” 

“As a thief, in the first place.” 

“I am not a thief. I am an honest woman!” shouted 
Fifine. 

“ Not only are you a thief, having on your person at this 
moment five hundred thousand francs that belong to me, but 
you are ” 

He said a few words in a low voice. 

The woman became deadly pale. 

“It was not I; it was the mistress of Croc-en-Jambe who 
killed him. It was Bebe la Rousse.” 

“That is to say, you held the lamp while she murdered 
him! And now, is it you who will call for help, or shall I?” 

The woman groaned. 

“ Hasten,” said Salvator, “for my time is short.” 

Trembling with anger, Fifine plunged her hand into her 
bosom, and pulled out some bank-notes. 

Salvator counted them. There were six packages. 

“ Give me four more like these,” he said, quietly. 

Fortunately for Salvator, and perhaps for herself — for Sal- 
vator was not a man to allow himself to be trifled with — Fi- 
fine had no arms about her. 

“ Make haste — four more like these,” repeated Salvator. 

Fifine, grinding her teeth, felt in her bosom again, and 
pulled out more notes.v 

“I want two more,” said Salvator. 

A third time did Fifi ne pull out more money. 

“Another — the last!” raid the young man, impatiently. 

“That is all,” she said. 

' “ There were ten packagts,” answered Salvator. “ Quick 
—•I want one more; I am waiting.” 


ROSE-T)E-XOEL 


179 


there is a tenth,” answered Fifine, resolutely, I must 
have i^)st it on the way.” 

Mademoiselle Josephine Dumont,” said Salvator, you 
are playing a hazardous game. Take care!” 

The woman started on hearing her family name thus 
spoken, and then pretended to make another effort to 
find the money. 

swear that I havenT got it!” she cried. 

Then you lie.”' 

‘‘Deuce take you!” she answered, impudently; “look 
for it yourself.” 

“I would rather lose the fifty thousand francs,” he 
answered, “than run the risk of touching the skin of a viper 
like yourself,” replied the ’ young man„ with a look of abso- 
lute horror. “ Go on, and I will give you to a policeman, 
and he will search.” 

And he pushed her with his elbow toward the stairs, as he 
could not make up his mind to touch her with his hand, 

“ Oh!” she cried, “take your money, and my curse with 
it!” 

Then tearing the last package from her pocket, she threw 
it down the staircase. 

“ Very good!” said' Salvator, “and now go and implore 
Barthelemy’s pardon, and do not forget, that if I hear any 
more complaints of you, I shall put you into the hands of the 
police.” 

Fifine departed, shaking her fist at Salvator, as she went. 

He watched her until she had disappeared, then be stooped, 
picked up the money, placed ten notes in his pocket- 
book, and put the remainder in his pocket. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

WHICH SHOWS THAT IT IS DANGEROUS, NOT TO RECEIVE, 
BUT TO GIVE RECEIPTS. 

Hardly had Fifine disappeared, hardly had Salvator dis- 
posed of the money, than GibassiePs door opened, and that 
worthy personage appeared on the threshold, dressed only in 
cotton drawers, with a silk handkerchief on his head, and his 
feet thrust into embroidered slippers. 

The knocks of Fifine at his door, the tender names bj 
which she had saluted him, the cry she had uttered on see- 
ing Salvator^ the contest tliat followed, had troubled, as we 


180 


ROSE-DE-NOEL. 


have said, the sleep of this most excellen! man so, thatxde- 
sirous of knowing what was was going on in the corri^, he 
finally jumped from his bed, and putting on somf^ scanty 
clothing, stole^o the door and opened it. 

Hearing no sound as he did so, he naturally in^rred that 
the passage was empty. 

He was astonished, therefore, to see Salvator, and as this 
man was a prudent fellow, his natural impulse was to close 
the door. 

But Salvator, who knew the scoundrel by sight as well as 
by reputation, and was well aware of the part he had played 
in the abduction of Mina, and who, ever since that affair, had 
kept him pretty well in sight, had no intention of allowing 
him to do this. He prevented him, therefore, by extend- 
ing his hand, from closing the door, and said with all the 
courtesy of which he was capable: 

“ It is to Monsieur Gibassier that I have the honor of 
speaking, is it not?” 

Yes, sir,” answered Gibassier, looking at him with an air 
as suspicious as his still svvolleii eyelids would permit. ‘‘ To 
whom have I the honor of speaking?” 

You do not know me?” asked Salvator, still holding the 
door. 

‘‘ No, I do not,” answered the scoundrel, ‘^although I have 
certainly seen your face somewhere, but the deuce knows 
where.” 

My coat tells you what I am, though.” 

Yes — commissionnaire — but what is your name?” 

Salvator.” 

Ah! Is your stand on the corner of tlie Rue aux Fers?” 
asked Gibassier, with manifest terror. 

Precisely.” 

‘‘ And what do you want of me?” 

I will tell you, if you will permit me to enter.” 

Gibassier hesitated. 

You distrust me?” said Salvator, making good his po- 
sition. 

“I! Why should I distrust you? I have never done you 
any harm; why should you wish to injure me?” 

I have come on an errand that may result in good to 
you. I trust this may be the case.” 

Gibassier sighed — he did not believe a word of this state- 
ment. 

You doubt me?” said Salvator. ... 


BOSE-T)E-KOEL, 


181 


** I admit that I have no especial confidence in you/' 

‘‘You shall judge." 

“Then, will you take this chair?" 

“Thanks," answered Salvator, “but I happen to be in 
great haste, and two words will settle my business with 
you." 

“As you will; but I, with your permission, will be seated," 
answered Gibassier, who had by no means recovered from 
the misadventures of the night. Then he said, as he 
settled himself comfortably, “Will you now inform me why 
you honor me by this visit?" 

“Can you dispose of a week?" asked Salvator. 

“That depends on what I am required to do with this 
week; it is quite a piece out of a man's life, even if he is 
only thirty- three." 

“ My dear Monsieur Gibassier," said Salvator, smiling with 
his sweetest smile, “you are a very remarkable man, and, 
although you do not look more than thirty-three, you have 
undoubtedly passed that agelong since; I do not say this to 
cheapen your week by any means." 

“But," asked Gibassier, “will my week be agreeably 
spent?” 

“ Agreeably and profitably. Y"ou will unite what is not 
common, the well-known precept of Horace, with whose works 
you, as a savant, are probably familiar — ‘ utile dulce.’" 

“ Well, what am I to do?" asked Gibassier, who was quite 
interested in this conversation. 

“It is a journey." 

“ Bravo!" 

“You like traveling, then?" 

“I adore it." 

“ Ah! that is very satisfactory.” 

“ And where am I to go?" 

“ To Germany." 

“ Germania mater ! Better and better!” cried Gibassier, 
“I am perfectly at home in Germany, and all my visits there 
have been extremely delightful." 

“ We know that, and that is the reason why the proposi- 
tion was made to you. Your happiness is the surety of the 
success of our affair." 

“Very good," said Gibassier. “And, by the way, this 
suits me to perfection, for it so happens that I am glad to 
leave France for a few days." 

“Then my proposition is acceptable?" said Salvator. 


HOS'E-TJE-lS'-OEL. 


m 

My health requires a change.”' ^ 

You do not look well; your eyes are swollen and blood- 
shot. Are you troubled by a rush of blood to your head?” 

“The truth is, my dear Monsieur Salvator, that during 
the past night, I nearly died of an attack of apoplexy.” 

“You were bled in time, of course?” asked Salvator, art- 
lessly. 

“ Yes,” answered Gibassier, “and most copiously. 

“A good preparation for a journey.” 

“Excellent.” 

“ I can then go into the affair?” 

“ Go on, my dear sir — go on. What am I to do?” 

“ Only to carry a letter. That is all.” 

“Indeed!” grumbled Gibassier, in whose mind a thousand 
suspicions sprung to life. “ To send a man to Germany only 
to carry a letter, when the postal service is so admirably 
organized!” 

“You think so?” asked Salvator, examining him with 
attention. 

“I say,” answered Gibassier, shaking his head, “that it 
must be a deuced strange letter that you are sending; for, if 
it were an ordinary one, I don’t suppose you would go to 
that expense.” 

“You are right,” said Salvator; “it is a letter of the 
greatest importance.” 

“ Political, I suppose?” 

“Entirely so.” 

“A very delicate mission?” 

“Especially so.” 

“Dangerous, probably?” 

“Dangerous, certainly; if every precaution were not 
taken.” 

“ What do you mean by precaution?” 

“The letter will be simply a sheet of white paper.” 

“ But the address?” 

“ Oh! that will be given by word of mouth.” 

“Then the letter is written in sympathetic ink?” 

“Yes, the invention of the person who wrote it — an inven- 
tion that defies Th^nard and Orfila themselves.” 

“ But the police?” 

“This ink defies even the police; and I am glad to say 
this to you, dear Monsieur Gibassier, lest you should take 
it into your head to sell the letter to Monsieur Jackal.” 

“Sir!” said Gibassier, straightening himself, “do you 
think me capable, then ” 


EOSE-DE-KOEL. 


18 o 


‘‘Human flesh is weak/’ answered Salvator. 

“That is true,” murmured Gibassier, plaintively. 

“You see,” continued Salvator, “that you really risk 
nothing.” 

“Do you say that to induce me to perform the mission 
cheaply?” 

“By no means; you will be paid in proportion to the im- 
portance of the affair.” 

“But who will fix the price?” 

“ Yourself.” 

“First I must know where I am to go.” 

“ To Heidelberg?” 

“ Very good. And when ?“ 

“ As soon as possible.” 

“ Will to-morrow do?” 

“To-night would be better.” 

“ I am too much fatigued to start this evening. I had a 
wretched night.” 

“You were disturbed then?” 

“Very much so.” 

“ Then go to-morrow morning. And now, please tell me 
what compensation you expect.” 

“To go to Heidelberg?*' 

“Yes, to Heidelberg.” 

“ How long to stay?” 

“Long enough to obtain a reply to the letter.” 

“ Well, then, is a thousand francs too much?” 

“ Is it enough?” 

“ I am economical by nature.’* 

“ Then we understand that you will carry it for one thou- 
sand francs. And to bring the reply?” 

“Another thousand.” 

“ One thousand to go and another to return, then.” 

“ Precisely.” 

“ This is the sum to be paid for the confidential mission, 
and of course does not include your expenses.” 

“Ah! I see!” 

“You are traveling for a wealthy house, my dear Monsieur 
Gibassier, and a thousand francs^ore or less are of little 
consequence.” 

“Then we will say two thousand francs.” 

“That is very reasonable.” 

“In all, then, we will call it two thousand francs to carry 
the letter, two thousand more to bring the reply ” 


184 BO^-DE-NOEL. 

“ Four thousand, in short/’ and Gibassier, as he said this, 
stifled a sigh. 

“Do you consider that too small a compensation?” asked 
Salvator. 

“No. I was thinking ” 

‘‘Of what?” 

“ Of nothing.” 

Gibassier did not tell the truth; he was thinking of all the 
trouble to be taken to earn the paltry sum of four thousand 
francs, when a few hours before, he had with so little diffi- 
culty obtained possession of five hundred thousand. 

“And yet, a man who sighs is not altogether happy,” said 
Salvator. 

“A man’s avarice is insatiable,” murmured Gibassier. 

“Our great moralist. La Fontaine, has written a fable on 
that,” answered Salvator. “ But to return to business.” 

He felt in his pocket. 

“ Have you the letter?” asked Gibassier. 

“ No; it was not to be written unless you accepted the 
mission.” 

“I accept it.” , 

“ Reflect well. And you will go?” 

“To-morrow, at daybreak.” 

Salvator took his pocket-book out, and, opening it, allowed 
Gibassier to see a quantity of bank-notes. 

“Ah!” said Gibassier, starting as if he had seen a naked 
dagger. 

Salvator did not seem to notice either the start or the ex- 
clamation. He separated two notes from the others, and, 
addressing Gibassier, 

“ Here is money for your expenses; when you bring back 
the reply to the letter you will have the additional two thou- 
sand francs.” 

Gibassier so slowly extended his hand that Salvator laid 
the money on the table. 

The man took up the notes and examined them with atten- 
tion, felt of them, and held them up to the light. 

“Excellent!” he murmured. 

“ Upon my word! Did you think J would give you forged 
notes?” 

“No, but you might have been yourself mistaken; there 
has been great progress made of late in the trade. Shall I 
see you again?” asked Gibassier. 

I “ Yes, to-night. At what hour will you be here?” 


ROSE-DE-l^OEL. 


185 


Ah! fco be sure; your attack ” 

Precisely/’ 

^‘Then at nine o’clock/’ and Salvator turned to the door. 
His hand was upon it, when he seemed to hesitate. “I 
came very near being obliged to come back from the other 
side of Paris,” he said, as if to himself. 

“ How do you mean?” 
forgot something.” 

And what is that?” 

^‘The receipt. You know that money is not mine; I am 
only a poor commissionnaire, and not likely to pay couriers 
four thousand francs.” 

thought it a little odd.” 

‘‘I wonder that it did not inspire you with distrust.” 

It did, to some extent,” answered Gibassier. 

'‘Then give me a receipt for two thousand francs, and 
then it will be all right.” 

“Very good,” said Gibassier, drawing his portfolio and 
ink toward him. 

Then, turning to Salvator, he said; 

“A mere receipt, you want?” 

“ That is all.” 

“Not going into particulars?” 

“No; just say 'on account.’” 

Gibassier, mechanically, or because he knew that bank- 
notes had a way of disappearing, placed his elbow on them, 
pinning them to the table, and then began to write the re- 
ceipt in his most elaborate style. 

When he had finished it he handed it to Salvator, who 
read it attentively, and, with a smile of satisfaction, then 
folded it and placed it in his pocket-book. 

Gibassier watched him uneasily. Salvator’s smile had dis- 
pleased him. 

But it was more than uneasiness when Salvator, folding 
liis arms and looking Gibassier in the face, said, with a smile 
that expanded into a most sarcastic laugh: 

“Upon my word. Monsieur Swindler, you are. most sub- 
limely impudent and sublimely foolish. To think that you 
were simple enough to believe a story like that I have just 
told you! To think that you are fool enough to be caught in 
a trap in which a child would not have been taken! It is in- 
credible. One would think, after your adventures of last 
night, that you might have learned a little caution. Did 
you suppose that nothing would come of your knavery? Did 
you not see that, to fix the guilt upon yourself, nothing 


186 


ROSE-DE-KOEL. 


was required but a line of your writing? Now, then, Comte 
Ercolano, take that chair and listen to me/^ 

Gibassier had heard the beginning of this discourse with 
increasing astonishment. When he realized the enormous 
folly of which he had been guilty in giving a receipt in his 
own handwriting to Salvator, he tried to take it back; but 
Salvator, foreseeing this movement probably, drew a pistol 
from his pocket, which he placed against the rascal’s breast, 
just as he said, ‘‘ Now, then, Comte Ercolano, take that chair 
and listen to me.” 

Gibassier, weakened by his struggle with Jean Taureau, 
and also more a man of cunning than violence, could do 
nothing but obey, and dropped into a chair, pale as death, 
with the perspiration pouring down his face. 

Gibassier realized that, like the Marshal de Villeroy, he 
had reached that point in his life when fortune abandons us, 
and when there is nothing but defeat to anticipate. 

Salvator went to the other side of the table, and, while 
playing still with his pistol, seated himself there and con- 
tinued talking. 

‘‘ You have been condemned to the galleys for theft and 
forgery — both crimes were fully proven — and you have been 
nearly condemned to death for murder; you escaped by the 
skin of your teeth. The murder took place in an infamous 
house in the Eue Froidmanteau; the victim was a provincial; 
the dwarf Bebe and Fifine were your iacoomplices. I can 
prove that you struck the first blow with a fire-dog — a blow 
which felled the poor fellow to the floor; while he was uncon- 
scious, he was finished by the two wretches, one of whom is, 
for another cause, in the hands of the law, and the other 
brought you this morning the five hundred thousand francs of 
which you robbed the Comtesse Rappt, and which I regained 
possession of, here at your very door. I can put you and 
Fifine where Monsieur Jackal, all powerful as he is, cannot 
release you. Do you think I have this power, and that you 
run a great risk if you do not obey me now?” 

‘‘ I believe you,” murmured Gibassier, dismally. 

Wait a little, I have not finished.” 

Some days after you made your escape from the galleys, 
you abducted a young girl from a school at Versailles, by the 
orders of Monsieur Loredan de Valgeneuse. Your accom- 
plices, after stealing from you a portion of the money you 
obtained for this noble exploit, threw you into a well, "from 
which Monsieur Jackal extricated you. Since that day you 
have belonged to him, body and soul; but neither you nor he 


ROSE-DE-NOEL. 


187 


were able to prevent my taliing Mina from Monsieur de Val- 
geneuse, and placing her in safety. You see, clever rascal as 
you are, that I can hold my own against you. To-day, there 
IS a matter of still greater consequence even than the abduc- 
tion of this young girl. If it is njecessary to gain piy end, I am 
willing to sacrifice not only the five hundred thousand francs 
that I caused to be taken from you last night, but twice as 
much, quadruple the sum if need be! Woe to -him who stands 
in my path, for I will crush him like powder! Listen to me, 
with all your ears.” 

I am listening.” 

When does the time granted to the Abb6 Dominique, that 
he might go to Rome, expire?” 

It expired yesterday.” 

5^ When will Monsieur Sarranti be executed?” 

‘‘ To-morrow, at four in the afternoon.” 

Salvator turned pale at these words, but presently recovered 
himself like a man who is not yet without hope, and changing 
the conversation, suddenly said: 

You Know that excellent Monsieur Gerard at Vanvres?” 
is my colleague and my friend,” answered Gibassier. 

“I know that. Has he never invited you to visit him at 
his country place?” 

Never.” 

‘‘How ungrateful! I wonder how it oaji be that on these 
beautiful summer days it never occurred to him to ask a 
friend to breakfast at his chateau at Vanvres?”, 

“I can’t say.” 

“If the occasion offered itself, you would not be unwilling 
to punish him a little for his ingratitude, would you?” 

“ Certainly not; for it is not pleasant to feel one’s self neg- 
lected.” 

“ Then I think I can offer you this occasion to-day,” 

“Indeed!” 

“ Monsieur Gerard has just been elected Mayor of Vanvres.” 

“ Some people are very fortunate,” murmured Gibassier 
with a sigh. 

“And with patience the same good fortune may be yours,” 
answered Salvator. “ You have only attempted a murder, 
you did not finish it; Monsieur Gerard did. You have been 
in the galleys; he is destined to go there, if not further; and 
if you choose, you can give the world an example of the length 
to which friendship will go by dying wdth him.” 

“Not I!” 

“ Well! on the whole, I think you are wise. But now to 


188 


KOSE-DE-NOEL. 


return to what I was saying. You will incur no other danger 
in doing what I ask than that of aiding an honest man to 
commit a good action. You shall have ten thousand francs 
• — just the sum you thought you had lost.’' 

You mean that I lent to my godson?” 

Precisely.” 

You are right, I certainly did think they were lost.” 

And they are not, as this proves to you. You can put 
this two thousand in your pocket,” — and Salvator handed 
Gibassier the money still lying on the table,-— ‘‘ and here are 
three thousand more.” 

'‘And for these you do not require a receipt?” said Gibas- 
sier. 

"You are a man of wit, I see.” 

"Yes, and it is that which has ruined me. Too much im- 
agination, sir — too much imagination! But go on; what am 
I to do now, where am I to go?” 

" To Vanvres.” 

" Which is not far.” 

" You were going to Heidelberg for four thousand francs, 
you can now go to Vanvres for ten.” 

"I thought you said for five?” 

" You have the five, and when you return, there will be 
another five ready for you.” 

"Very good; 1 am quite willing to go to Vanvres, but what 
am I to So there?” 

"I will tell you. In honor of his nomination as mayor. 
Monsieur Gerard gives to-day a dinner of twelve covers. He 
has not invited you, because there would then be thirteen at 
table, which is unlucky.” 

" I have noticed tliat he is very superstitious,” said Gibas- 
sier. 

" Yes — and it seems to me that it is as well that you should 
go and give him a lesson in courtesy. What do you say?” 

" I don’t say anything, for I don’t understand you.”' 

" I will be as clear as possible, then. I told you that 
Monsieur Gerard, your colleague, gives, to-day, a dinner to 
twelve persons, including the Judge and several members of 
the municipal council. Well, then, for a reason that it is 
unnecessary to state, I am desirous that Monsieur Gerard 
should be absent from this dinner for an hour — about the 
middle^of it — and, dear Monsieur Gibassier, I roly on you for 
the accomplishment of this project.” 

" But how can I aid you?” 

"In a very simple way. Monsieur Gerard, standing as he 


ROSE-DE-^rOEL. J89 

now does with the police, cannot refuse to obey an order of 
Monsieur Jackal.” 

“ Of course not.” 

'' Then. suppose that Monsieur Jackal should order Mon- 
sieur Gerard to repair without delay to the T4te-Noire at 
Saint-Cloud, of course Monsieur G6rard would obey without 
hesitation.” 

I agree with you.” 

Then you see what I mean. You will go to Vanvres, to 
Monsieur Gerard, during his dinner, at half past six. As 
the weather is so fine, they will dine at half past five, in the 
garden. You will arrive, and will go up to the host with a 
smile, and will say: ‘ Dear colleague, our common master 
begs you to go, on a matter of the highest importance and 
without the smallest delay, to the Tete- Noire at Saint-Cloud.^” 

‘‘ And that is all?” 

** Everything.” 

That seems to me very easy; but I may be mistaken.” 

‘‘ How do you mean?” 

Monsieur Jackal will be furious. Would it not be better 
to send Gerard to him?” 

‘‘Dofyou think, my dear sir,” answered Salvator, ‘‘that 
if I knew of any more commodious manner of arranging this 
matter, that I would not suggest it? But there is none. Yon 
will notice that I not only want to take Monsieur Gerard 
from home, but 1 want to keep liim away for two hours. 
Now, to go from Vanvres to Saint-Cloud will take three 
quarters of an hour. Another half hour will be spent in 
waiting for Monsieur Jackal, and another three quarters in 
returning; so that makes just the two hours that I require.” 

“ You need say no more. Monsieur Salvator; it shall be 
done as you desire, though I must say that I shrink from in- 
curring the anger of my master,” 

“ You can avoid it.” 

“And in what way?” 

“You can go to Saint-Cloud with Monsieur Gerard. You 
can pretend to be as much annoyed as he at Monsieur Jackal’s 
delay; then, at the end of a half liour, you will burst out 
laughing, and you will say, ‘ Well, Monsieur Gerard, what 
do you think of the little joke I iiave played you?’ ‘ What 
joke?’ he will ask. Then you will say that you learned from 
the newspapers that he was giving a little fete champetre at 
Vanvres, and had not been kind enough to ask you. That 
you considered the omission unpardonable, and had revenged 
your injured dignity by mystifying him. You will say that 


190 


EOSE-DE-2yOEL. 


Monsieur Jackal had nothing to do with the affair in a^ny 
way; but that he sent his compliments. Then you will make 
him a bow, and let him return to his guests. In this way 
you will incur the anger of no one except Monsieur Gerard, 
and I doubt if you care much for that.” 

Gibassier looked at Salvator with admiration. 

‘‘Upon my word!” he said, “you are a very great man, 
and, if it were not too much to ask, I should like to shake 
hands with you.” 

“ Ah!” said Salvator, “you wish to ascertain if I have any 
strength in my hand. You think, as it is white and slender, 
you can crush it in yours. Another mistake, my dear sir; 
but I will only ask time to put on a glove.” 

Salvator uncocked his pistol, placed it in his pocket, and 
drew on his right hand a dark glove, such |as well-dressed 
men wear in the morning, and extended to Gibassier a hand 
which, for delicacy, might have been envied by a woman. 

Gibassier, full of confidence, dropped his heavy hand into 
tlie slender one extended. 

But hardly had these two hands met, than Gibassier’s face 
expressed first surprise, and then every shade of pain, until it 
amounted to anguish. 

“Zounds, man!” he cried, “you are crushing every bone 
in my hand! Mercy! Mercy!” 

And he fell on h-is knees before Salvator, whose glove had 
burst in the effort he had made, but whose face was as tran- 
quil and smiling as ever. 

Salvator released the hand just as the blood was oozing 
from under the nails. 

“ To prove to you that under no circumstances am I a man 
to be trifled with, I have honored you by shaking hands with 
you.^* 

“I shall remember it, I promise you,” said the victim, as 
he examined his injured member. “Thanks for the lesson, 
sir.” 

“Now we will continue our business.” 

“If you please. Monsieur Salvator.” 

“ AUialf past six, then, you will be at Monsieur Gerard’s. 
You will not leave him until eight; and to-morrow morning 
you may come to me, No. 4 Rue Macon, when you will re- 
ceive the five thousand francs then due. Monsieur Petrus, 
your pretended godson, will then be released from bis in- 
debtedness to you.” 

“Yes, sir; that will be all right.” 

“ Only remember one thing, that if you play me a trick, you 


ROSE-DE NOEL. 


191 


are a dead man, either at my hand or at the hand of the 

law.” 

“I promise you to keep ray word,” answered Gibaseier, 
bowing humbly before Salvator, who hastily descended the 
stairs, and went in search of Jean Taureau, whom he had left 
looking for Fifine on the esplanade of the Observatory. 


CHAPTER XXXL 

DINNER IN THE GARDEN. 

In the center of a lovely lawn, which looked like a velvet car- 
pet thrown down before 1 he chateau, and to which magnificent 
stone steps descended, M. Gerard’s table was spread. Around 
this table were seated eleven persons, whom the ch^telainhad 
invited under the pretext of dinner, but in reality to talk of 
the approaching elections. M. Gerard had limited the num- 
ber to eleven, who, with the master of the house, made twelve. 
M. Gerard would have died of fear, or would have had a very 
bad dinner, at a table of thirteen, for this good man was very 
superstitious. 

These eleven guests were the most important persons in 
Vanvres. They had one and all accepted with 'eagerness the 
invitation of the lord of the country, for M. Gerard could be 
so considered. They professed for the honest man, whom 
Providence had made their citizen, a pious respect, and they 
would as soon have questioned the light of the sun in midday, 
as doubted the virtue of their Job. Envious, vain, proud, 
and selfish, they seemed to forget their vanity, their envy, their 
])ride, and their selfishness, before the modesty and self-abne- 
gation of their incomparable fellow citizen. No one in Van- 
vres had the smallest reason to complain of M. Gerard, and 
many, on the contrary, had every reason to praise him. He 
owed nothing to any one, but many owed him much — some 
money, others liberty, and even life. 

The public voice of Vanvres, and of the adjacent towns, 
had designated him to represent them in the Chamber of 
Deputies. Some went further, and murmured the words, 
“ Chamber of Peers.” 

But they were told that he could not enter the Chamber 
of Peers without certain qualifications, and as the Chamber 
of Deputies was a stepping-stone to the peerage, they all 
united in their determination to choose M. Gerard as the rep- 
resentative of the Department of the Seine. Two or three 


192 


rose-t>e-not:l. 


days before, the principal men of the village had come in a 
body to bring to M. Gerard expressions of earnest sympathy 
from all the inhabitants. M. Gerard had modestly declined 
the honor offered him, declaring that, in his soul and in his 
conscience — which was probably true — he considered himself 
unworthy. He called himself a great sinner, which made a 
rich agriculturist laugh loudly. This man was thinking of 
a model farm, for which project he wished to borrow money 
from Gerard. In spite of the refusal of this good man, his 
fellow citizens persisted, and after saying to them, ^^Yon, 
gentlemen, have brought all this upon yourselves. You force 
me to this, gentlemen. You command, and I obey ” — after 
saying this, and much more of the same kind, M. Gerard 
ended by accepting, and authorized his friends to put up his 
name. 

The agriculturist, although a Eoyalist — it would have been 
better, perhaps, had he chosen bees for a symbol rather than 
lilies — was empowered to announce that same evening, in the 
neighboring towns, the great event of M. Gerard’s accept- 
ance, and to go the first day that he could spare from his 
bees— for the agriculturist, while waiting for his model farm, 
sent much honey to market — was to go, as we were saying, to 
Paris, to have this fact published in all the newspapers. 

Of course M. Gerard could not permit this deputation to 
depart without offering them refreshments, and without in- 
viting them to dinner on the following Thursday. 

It was in consequence of this invitation that the eleven 
delegates were seated around M. Gerard’s table, and, as we 
said no one had declined, it is safe to infer that no one had 
repented of his eagerness to accept. 

It was a lovely afternoon; the meats were well cooked and 
tender, the wine exquisite. It was about six o’clock. The 
party had taken their seats at five, and each man was doing 
liis best to be brilliant and to make an effective little speech, 
which would have suited the termination of a seance at the 
Chamber far better than a dinner in the open air. 

The agriculturist, however, gave no other indication of his 
presence than by murmuring in a thick voice between each 
speech, confused phrases in praise of the Amphitryon, at 
whose disposition he placed his life and that of his honey- 
bees. A notary, almost as enthusiastic as the agriculturist, 
read out a toast in which he compared M. Gerard to Aristides, 
and claimed that the Vanvrais were superior to the Athe- 
nians, who were weary of hearing Aristides called the JusU” 


ROSE-DE-N-O-EL. 




while the Vanvrais never tired of hearing: M. Gerard called 
** the Honest/* 

A retired usher sung a few couplets he had composed, in 
which he declared that M. Gerard had fought the hydra of 
anarchy with no less success than the son of Jupiter had 
fought the hydra of antiquity. 

A physician, who had made toxicological researches 
into the virus of mad dogs, had recalled one occasion when 
M. Gerard, armed with his gun, had .delivered the country 
from an animal that had caused the greatest consternation, 
and he drank to the hope that science would discover an anti- 
dote to this terrible malady known as hydrophobia. Finally 
one of the guests left the table, and returning presently*^, 
brought a wreath of laurel, with which he crowned M. Ge- 
rard. The effect was extremely touching. 

The gayety was at its height, flattering speeches flev/ 
from every tongue. There was not a cloud at this delightful 
fete; each participant would have given his life for this great 
and good man, who was named M. G6rard. 

At this juncture a servant appeared, to say that a stranger 
wished to speak to his master. 

Did he not give his name?** asked M. Gerard. 

No, sir,** the servant replied. 

^‘Then go tell him,** said M. Gerard, ^Hhat I receive no 
one who does not give his name, and the reason for which he 
comes.** 

The servant departed with this message. 

Bravo! bravo!** shouted the guests in chorus. 

^‘How well said!*’ murmured the notary. 

*^How eloquent he will be in the Chambers!** said the 
physician. 

How great when he becomes minister!** cried another. 
Gentlemen! gentlemen!** expostulated the modest Gerard. 
The servant reappeared. 

‘^Well?** asked his master. ‘‘What does the man want, 
and who is he?** 

“ He comes from Monsieur Jackal, and wishes to tell you 
that Monsieur Sarranti*s execution will take place to-morrow.” 

M. Gerard turned very pale; he rushed from the room, 
saying to the servant. 

Go quickly and tell him I am coming.** 

Far advanced as were the guests on the road to drunken- 
ness, there was not one of them who did not notice the 
strange manner of their host. 

This disappearance of M. Gerard led to a momentary 


194 


ROSE-DE-NOEL. 


silence in tlie noisy conversation, which the appearance of 
the servant had interrupted. 

As many present knew, superficially be it understood, the 
facts relative to M. Sarranti, they naturally resumed con- 
versation at this point. 

The notary was the first to speak, and explained how it 
was that the name of Sarranti, pronounced in the presence 
of the good M. Gerard, naturally caused every fiber of his 
soul to vibrate. 

M. Sarranti, or rather, that wretch, Sarranti,” had been, 
in charge of the education of the nephew and niece of M. 
Gerard; he had been convicted of the murder of these two 
children — a murder committed with such extreme precau- 
tion that the bodies had never been discovered. 

This narration explained the absence of M. Gerard, and 
the mention of the well-known name of M. Jackal. 

M. Sarranti, ere he went to the scaffold, had probably reve- 
lations to make, and had sent through M. Jackal for M. 
Gerard to hear these revelations. 

The indignation against Sarranti redoubled. 

It was not enough to have stolen a large sum of money, to 
have murdered two innocent children; but he must now 
choose for his confession the sacred hours consecrated to a 
feast, contrary to this sentence in the famous work, entitled 

La Gastronomic Nothing should disturb a good man 
who is dining.” 

But as the Burgundy was of the ripest, the champagne 
most delightfully iced, and as, on the side-table, an.^excellent 
dessert was arranged, they resolved to wait for M. Gerard with 
patience, and to amuse themselves by talking and drinking. 

This resolution was fortified by the appearance of the 
domestic, who came down the steps with two bottles in each 
hand. He said, as he placed them on the table. 

My master sends his compliments, and begs you to drink 
this Laflfitte which has been to India, and this Chambertin of 
1811 , and not to trouble yourselves about him. He has re- 
ceived a sudden summons to Paris, and will be back in 
half hour.” 

“Bravo! bravo!” shouted the guests. 

And four arms extended themselves to grasp the necks of 
the four bottles. 

At this moment the wheels of a carriage were heard rolling 
rapidly out of the courtyard. 

It was M. Gerard departing. 

“ To his speedy return!” said the physician. 


ROSE-DE-iWEL. 


195 


The other guests each said something, not quite as intel- 
ligible as it might have been, and tried to rise to their feet 
in order to give the toast with more solemnity, but the exer- 
tion was beyond the strength of many of them. 

Suddenly a new person appeared among them, and changed 
the conversation. 

This person was our old friend Eoland, or Bresil, as, per- 
haps, we had best call him under the circumstances. Ko 
one knew how he had entered the garden without any one 
seeing him, but there he was, and with two bounds was at 
the table. 

The first person w^ho saw him uttered a terrified ex- 
clamation. 

And we must confess that the inflamed eyes and lolling 
tongue of the animal justified the terror. 

“What is the matter?” asked the physician, who, with hia 
back to the steps, knew nothing of the arrival of the uninvited 
guest. 

“ A mad dog!” said the notary. 

“ A mad dog?” repeated the guests in horror. 

“There! There! Look at him.” 

Every eye turned in the direction to which the notary 
pointed, and they saw that the panting animal, furious as 
he seemed, was watching the door, and apparently waiting 
for some one. 

But the time seemed too long, probably, for, with his nose 
close to the ground, the dog began to describe large circles, 
of which the table and the guests composed the center, and 
which, large at first, he began to contract. 

The guests, without seeking to conceal their terror, rose 
hastily, and looked about to see in which direction they 
should flee. One kept his eyes fixed on a tree, another 
gazed longingly at a little shed where the gardener kept his 
tools, another made up his mind to climb the wall, and an- 
other to seek refuge in the chateau. All at once a sharp 
whistle was heard, followed by this command in a full, rich 
voice: 

“ Here, Roland !” 

The dog turned, and obediently went to his master. This 
master, it is needless to say, was Salvator. 

Every eye was turned toward him. He was standing in the 
full light of the setting sun; he was dressed with the greatest 
elegance, all in black, lie held in his hand a cane, with a han- 
dle of la.pis lazuli. He slowly descended the steps, raising his 
hat from his head when he reached the gravel walk; then, 


196 


ROSE-DE-NOEL. 


crossing the lawn with Roland at his heels, he w'ent to the 
^hair that M, Gerard had occupied — the chair that now 
stood empty— and with his hand lightly resting on the back, 
he greeted each guest with great courtesy. 

“Gentlemen,’’ he said, “I am one of the oldest acquaint- 
ances of our friend, Monsieur Gerard — the good Monsieur 
Gerard; he was to have done me the honor of presenting me 
to you, and we were to have dined together; but, unfortu- 
nately for myself, I was detained in Paris by the same cause 
that has momentarily deprived you of our host.” 

“ Ah! yes,” the notary replied, beginning to be somewhat 
reassured by seeing that the dog was fully under the control 
of the stranger, “ You mean by the Sarranti matter?” 

“ Precisely, gentlemen; by the Sarranti matter.” 

He is to be executed to-morrow, I believe?” said the usher. 

“ Yes, to-morrow, unless his innocence is proved before.” 

“ His innocence? That w^ould be rather difficult, I fancy.” 

Who knows?” answered Salvator. We have in history 
the geese of the poet Ibicus, and in our day, the dog of Mon- 
targis.” 

“Speaking of dogs,” said the agriculturist, in his thick 
voice, “ I ought to tell you that your animal has frightened us 
out of our wits.” 

“Roland?” asked Salvator, innocently. 

“ Ah! his name is Roland, then?” said the notary. 

“I really hoped for a moment that he might be mad,” in- 
terposed the physician. 

“Did you say hoped f” asked Salvator. 

Yes, sir, and I meant it. We are eleven, and I had ten 
chances to one that the animal would attack one of my com- 
panions and not me; and, as 1 am especially interested in 
hydrophobia, I intended to take this opportunity of applying, 
on a fresh wound, the antidote that I always carry with me 
in the\hope that an occasion will present itself.” 

“ 1 see that you are a real philosopher; unfortunately, my 
dog IS not just now ^ a subject’-^ this, I believe, is the correct 
medical phrase. To prove this, I desire to show you how in- 
stantaneous is his obedience.” 

And pointing under the table, as he would to a kennel, he 
said : 

“ Lie down, Bresil — lie down.” 

Then, turning to the guests, he continued; 

“ Do not be astonished that I bid my dog lie under the 
table, where I propose to sit with you. I came to dinner, 
late as I was, for 1 met Monsieur Gerard on the road, and in- 


ROSE-DE-NOEL. 


197 


feisfced on turning back with him, but he said so much that I 
came on. As I was anxious to do so, I could not resist his 
entreaties, particularly as he requested me to do the honors of 
his table in his absence. 

‘‘Bravo! Bravo!” cried the little circle, quite impressed 
by Salvator’s grand manners. 

“ Then take his chair!” cried the notary, “ and allow me to 
pour out a glass of wine that we may drink to our friend’s 
health.” 

Salvator held out his glass. 

“May God reward him as he deserves!” he said, solemnly, 
and, carrying the glass to his lips, he sipped the wine. 

Bresil uttered a low howl. 

“What is the matter with your dog?” asked the notary. 

“Nothing; it is only his way of signifying his approval 
when a toast is proposed.” 

“ Upon my word,” said the physician, “ your animal has 
received a most finished education; only, I must say, his 
manner of approval is not enlivening.” 

“You are well aware,” answered Salvator, “even if science 
does not explain the fact, that certain animals have certain 
presentiments; it may be that misfortune threatens our ex- 
cellent friend Gerard.” 

“ Yes, I have heard such things said/’ the physician re- 
plied, but we, esprit forts as we are, do not believe in such 
nonsense.” 

“And yet,” interposed one of the guests, “my grand- 
mother ” 

“ Your grandmother was a simpleton, my friend,” said the 
physician. 

“Excuse me,” interrupted the notary, “but you were 
speaking of a possible danger to our friend Gerard.” 

“A danger?” said the surveyor. “ What danger could pos- 
sibly come to the best man in the world — one who has never 
swerved from the right path?” 

“ A man who is patriotism itself!” exclaimed the usher. 

“The incarnation of devotion!” cried the physician. 

“Abnegation itself!” said the notary. 

“Ah! gentlemen, you are well aware that it is just such 
people whom misfortune attacks. Misfortune is the roaring 
lion of the Scripture, ‘ quaerens quern devoret,’ and attacks 
especially those who are virtuous. Look at Job, fur ex- 
ample.” 

“ What the deuce is your dog doing?” suddenly exclaimed 
the agriculturist. “ Why does he eat grass?” 


198 


EOSE-BE-KOEL. 


Never mind him,” answered Salvator. We were speak- 
ing of Monsieur ^irerard, and we were saying ” 

‘‘We were saying,” interrupted the notary, “that the 
country should be proud of having given birth to such a 
man.” 

“He will reduce the taxes,” said the physician. 

“ He will raise the price of wheat,” said the agriculturist. 

“He will lower the price of bread,” said the notary. 

“ He will liquidate the national debt,” said the usher. 

“ He will reform the arbitrary constitution of the School 
of Medicine,” said the physician. 

“Oh!” exclaimed the notary, interrupting this chorus of 
praise, “your dog is throwing dirt on my pantaloons.” 

“ Very likely,” answered Salvator, “ but we will not trouble 
ourselves about him.” 

“Excuse me,. sir, I think we will,” continued the notary, 
looking under the table. “ He presents a most singular ap- 
pearance; his tongue is out of his mouth, his eyes are red, 
and his hair is bristling.” 

“ I dare say,” said Salvator, laughing, “but you need not 
be afraid of him, he is not rabid. He is a monomaniac only 
on one point.” 

“And what is that?” 

“ There were two persons whom he adored, and to whom 
he belonged, a little boy and a little girl; the boy was mur- 
dered, most foully murdered, and the girl disappeared, hie 
has never relaxed in his search for the girl, and his fidelity 
has been rewarded — he has found her.” 

“Living?” 

“Yes, living. But as the poor boy was murdered and 
buried, Bresil still searches, hoping to find the body.” 

“ ‘ Quaere et invenies,’” said the notary, who was glad of an 
opportunity of airing his Latin, 

“Excuse me, sir,” interrupted the physician, “but I am 
inclined to think you have been telling us a very pretty little 
romance.” 

“A true story,” said Salvator, “and a most terrible one.” 

“ ‘ We are just between cheese and pears,’ as the worthy 
Monsieur d’Aigrefeuille, of gastronomic memory, said. It is 
the time for stories. Suppose you gratify us by telling yours ?” 
said the notary. 

“ Most willingly,” answered Salvator. 

“I am charmed,” murmured the physician. 

“I am sure it will be interesting,” added the agriculturist, 

“You are right,” Salvator replied. 


IlOSE-DE-Is’’OEL. 


199 


‘'Hush! Hush!” was heard on all sides. 

There was a moment of silence, during which Br6sil uttered 
so mournful and prolonged a wail that a cold shiver ran 
through the veins of each one of the guests, and the agricult- 
urist grumbled: 

“ Deuce take that dog! Be off with you, sir!” 

‘‘Sit down, will you?” and the notary pulled the agricult- 
urist back into the chair by the tails of his coat. 

“The history! The history!” shouted the guests. 

“ Gentlemen,” said Salvator, “1 will call my drama — for it 
is rather a drama than a history — ‘ Giraud, the good man,’ 
and, as a sub-title, ‘One must not trust to appearances.’” 

“ That is an excellent title, and if I were you I would give 
it to some author or dramatist,” said the notary. 

“I cannot, sir; it is engaged by the Procureur du Roi.” 

“That is almost Gerard, the good man,” said the agricult- 
urist. 

“ There is only the difference of two letters,” answered 
Salvator, blandly. 

“Gentlemen!” cried the notary, “1 beg you to observe 
that you are preventing the gentleman from beginning his 
narrative.” 

“I have ample time,” answered Salvator, courteously. 

“Silence! Silence!” 

Bresil was heard scratching the earth violently, and breath* 
ing noisily. • 

Salvator began. 

Our readers know the drama that he related under assumed 
names. By dint of indefatigable labor, and by force of his 
keen insight, as well as assisted by Bresil, he had recon- 
structed the whole event, as a skillful architect builds up 
from fragments an antique monument — as Cuvier, from a few 
bones, shows us an antediluvian monster. 

We will not follow Salvator in his recital, as our readers 
will learn nothing new from it. 

When, however, Salvator, after relating Giraud’s crime — 
for he gave to the villain of his story that name, — showed 
how the hypocritical assassin had succeeded in surrounding 
himself, not only with esteem and respect, but had also 
aroused the most intense affection and devotion in the hearts 
of his fellow citizens, his audience uttered a cry of indigna- 
tion, to which Brasil responded by a low growl, as if he, too, 
wished to join in this concert of maledictions. Then, when 
he had developed the hypocrisy of the wretch, the narrator 
proceeded to relate the cowardly barbarity with which this 


^00 


nORE-DE-ITOlL. 


man allowed an innocent person to be condemned for bia 
crime — when he, himself, had but to leave the country and. 
change his name, while confessing his guilt, instead of com- 
mitting another even more terrible than the first — the emotion 
of his audience reached such a point that each person uttered 
a malediction upon the murderer. 

But,’’ cried the notary, ‘‘did you not say that it is to- 
morrow that the innocent man is to suffer for the guilty?” 

“ Yes, it is to-morrow.” 

“Then,” asked the physician, hastily, “how is it possible 
between now and to-morrow, that you can find proofs suffi- 
cient to open the eyes of the law?” 

“ The goodness of God is great!” said Salvator, as he lifted 
the table-cloth and looked down at the dog, who was still 
madly digging ih the earth; but when he found that his 
master was looking at him, he came and buried his cold wet 
nose in Salvator’s hand as a caress, and then returned to his 
task. 

“The goodness of God — the goodness of God!” repeated 
the physician, who was profoundly skeptical. “ That is very 
well, but good substantial proof would be better.” 

“Unquestionably — but 1 hope to obtain this proof again,” 
answered Salvator — although 

“Ah!” said the guests, as with once voice, “you had proof 
then?” 

“Yes.” 

“ But you can’t lay your hand on it now?’* 

“Unfortunately not.” 

“What proof is it?!i. 

“ I had, thanks to Bresil, found the child’s skeleton.” 

“ Oh!” exclaimed the guests, aghast. 

“ And why did you not at once send for the police and a 
doctor?” asked the physician. 

“ That is precisely what I did do, with the exception of the 
doctor, but in this brief interval, the skeleton disappeared, 
and justice laughed in my face.” 

“The murderer must have got wind of the thing,” said 
the notary, “ and taken away the skeleton.” 

“ And now you are again in search of it?” asked the usher. 

“Good heavens! Yes,”. Salvator replied. “ For if this skel- 
eton is found. Monsieur Sarranti can’t be executed.” 

“ Sarranti!” the guests exclaimed. “ Is Monsieur Sarranti 
the man who is falsely accused?” 

“ Did I allow his name to pass my lips?” 


ROSE-DE-KOEL, 


^01 


> You said Sarranfci/’ 

Very well; if I said ifc, I shall not take it back.” 

‘‘ And what interest have you in proving the innocence of 
this man?” 

- He is the father of one of my friends; but, if he were an 
absolute stranger, it seems to me that it is my duty, as well 
as the duty of every man, to save a fellow creature from the 
scaffold when he is convinced of his innocence.” 

“ But,” asked the notary, the proof of which you are in 
search, you can’t expect to find here.” 

‘‘And why not?” 

“,At Monsieur Gerard’s?” 

“Why not?” 

The dog, as if in response to these words, uttered a pro- 
longed howl. 

“ Do you hear that?” asked Salvator. “ Bresil bids me not 
despair.’’ 

“ He has not given up the search, then?” 

“ iO'o; did I not tell you that he was a monomaniac, that 
he had but one idea, that of finding the body of his young 
master again.” 

“ Yes, you did say that,” answered the guests one and all. 

“ Well, then,” resumed Salvator, “ while I am telling you 
the first four acts of the drama, Bresil is working out tho 
fifth.” 

“ What is that you say?” asked the notary, and the usher, 
together with the others, silently interrogated him with their 
eyes. 

“Look under the table,” said Salvator, raising the cloth. 

Each guest plunged his head under the table. 

“ What the deuce is he doing?” asked the physician, who, 
although he no longer thought the dog mad, considered him 
an interesting subject to study. 

“ He is making a hole, as you see.” 

“And an enormous one,” said the notary — “a hole over 
four feet in depth and eight in circumference.” 

“And what is he looking for?” asked the usher* 

“A piece of evidence.” 

“What evidence?” questioned the notary. 

“The skeleton of the child,” answered Salvator. 

The word “skeleton,” pronounced in this clear and solemn 
voice, just as the day was closing in, caused every hair to rise on 
the heads of his hearers, who hastily withdrew from the ex- 
cavation— the physician was the only exception. 


202 


KOSE-DE-NOEL. 


''This table is in the way/’ he said. 

" Help me to move it/’ answered Salvator. 

The two men took the table and carried it a few feet away, 
leaving the dog exposed to sigiit. Bresil did not seem to per- 
ceive the change that had been made, so occupied was he in 
his terrible task. 

"Come, gentlemen, a little courage!” said Salvator. 

"I must confess that I am curious to see the denoHment^’^ 
the notary replied. 

" We have nearly reached it,” answered Salvator. 

The men formed a circle around the dog. 

Bresil continued to dig with such energy and regularity 
that he was more like a machine than a dog. 

"Courage, good Bresil!” said Salvator; "your strength 
must be nearly exhausted, but you are nearly at the end of 
your labors! Courage!” 

The dog turned his head and seemed to thank his master 
for his sympathy. 

The animal worked on for a few minutes, during which 
the guests, with open mouths and suspended respiration, 
watclxed the strange scene with curiosity. They looked from 
the dog to his master, who, they began to believe, was not so 
much the friend of M. Gerard as he had claimed to be on 
arriving. 

At the end of another five minutes, Bresil uttered a long 
sigh and ceased scratching the earth, at the same time noisily 
sniffing at one portion of the excavation. 

"He has it! he has it!” cried Salvator, joyously. "You 
have found it, good dog, have you not?” 

" What has he found?” asked the other men. 

" The skeleton!” answered Salvator. " Here, Bresil, 
here!” 

The dog leaped from the hole, and crouching on its edge, 
looked at his master, as much as to say, "It is now your 
turn.” 

Salvator jumped into the hole, plunged his arm into the 
deepest place, and, calling to the physician^ said: 

" Come here, sir, and feel!” 

The physician obeyed this summons with a courage that 
amazed his companions, who now, perfectly sober, looked 
from Salvator to each other in utter dismay. The physician 
felt with the tips of his fingers the soft, silky substance*^ which 
had so startled Salvator when Bresil found the skeleton the 
first time in the Parc de Yiry. 

" That is hair/’ said the doctor. 


ROSE-DE-N^OEL. 


203 


Hair!” repeated the guests. 

Yes^ gentlemen; and if you will bring candles, you can 
see for yourselves,” said Salvator. - 

The men hastened to the house, each returning with a light 
of some kind. 

The physician and Bresil were alone at the excavation. 
Salvator liad gone to the shed where tlie gardener kept his 
tools, and returned with a shovel. 

The men stood around the hole, each with a candelabra in 
his hand. There were at least fifty candles burning. 

Coming through the earth, they all saw a lock of blonde 
hair. 

W“e must continue this work,” said the physician, 
sternly. 

That is what I propose to do,” answered Salvator. 
^‘Gentlemen, will one of you take a large napkiu and lay it 
on the ground at the side of this place?” 

This was done. 

Salvator descended into the hole and cautiously introduced 
his shovel into the earth, and then raising it, brought up the 
skull of the child lying on this polished pillow of steel. 

The spectators shuddered visibly when Salvator’s gloved 
hands lifted this little head and laid it on the napkin. 

Then Salvator took up the shovel and resumed his task. 

He laid, bit by bit, all the bones upon the napkin with the 
head. In a few moments he arranged the entire skeleton, 
placing each bone in its place, to the astonishment of the 
spectators and the satisfaction of the physician, who said: 

^‘Is it to a confrere that I have the honor of speaking?” 

No, sir,” answered Salvator; I am a simple amateur 
of anatomy.” 

Then turning to the spectators, he said: 

You are all witnesses to the fact that I have just found 
ill this place the body of a child?” 

am a witness,” the physician replied, he seeming desir- 
ous of monopolizing the testimony that Salvator demanded 
from them all, ‘^and this skeleton is that of a male child of 
eight or nine years.” 

You all agree to this?” asked Salvator, turning his eyei^ 
on each of the spectators in succession. 

Yes — all of us,” repeated the guests, greatly pleased at 
the distinguished parts they were called on to play. 

And you will, each one of you, give your evidence in a 
court of justice, if called upon to do so?” continued Salvator: 

Yes — each one of us.” 


204 ROSE-DE-NOEL. 

But,’’ said the usher, an official report must be drawn 
up.” 

No,” answered Salvator; it is all ready.” 

How do you mean?” 

• I was so sure of finding that of which I was in search,” 
said Salvator, drawing a stamped paper from his pocket, 
‘^that I have it with me.” 

And he proceeded to read a report written in the -usual 
style of these papers, and in which every detail was given of 
the discovery of the skeleton, as well as a description of the 
place where it was found, which was a proof that Salvator 
did not visit the garden of Vanvres for the first time that 
day. 

One ’thing only was w^anting — the names of the persons 
present at the exhumation. 

All the spectators of this scene, who, in the last half hour, 
had been more astonished and startled than ever before in 
the course of their lives, listened to the reading of this paper 
in a stunned sort of way, all the time watching the stranger 
who had so mysteriously prepared this fantastic scene. 

Bring an inkstand,” said..Salvator to a servant who was 
looking on with as much amazement as the others. 

The man hastened to obey, as if he recognized in Salvator 
the right to command, and came back in a few moments run- 
ning with pen and ink in his hand. 

Each man signed the paper, which Salvator carefully placed 
in his pocket; and, after patting Brasil once more on his 
head, he tied together the four corners of the napkin in which 
was the skeleton, and with a bow to the distinguished circle, 
he said: 

‘^Gentlemen, you will remember that it is' to-morrow, at 
four o’clock, that an innocent man is to be executed. I 
have, therefore, no time to lose, and consequently beg leave 
to retire.’' 

‘' Excuse me, sir,” said the notary, “but you said, I think, 
that the name of this innocent person was Sarranti?” 

“I said so — yes; and 1 repeat it.” 

“ But, continued the notary, “ was not the name of our 
host connected, three or four months since, with this sad 
affair?” 

“It certainly was.” 

“ Then,” interrupted the physician, “ we have a right to 
believe that your Giraud is ■” 

“Monsieur G6rard? Is that what jou desire to ask?” 


ROSE-DE-NOEr.; 


^Od 


/‘Yes,” answered the men, all together; “that is what we 
want to know.” 

“ You can draw such inferences, gentlemen, as you choose; 
but to-morrow there will be no more uncertainty. Farewell, 
Come, Br^sih” 

And Salvator, followed by his dog, departed, leaving the 
guests of good M. Gerard in a state of consternation difficult 
to describe. 


CHAPTER XXXIL 

ODE TO FRIENDSHIP. 

Now we will see what M. G6rard was doing while such 
strange events were taking place on his lawn. 

We saw him ascend the steps fi’om the garden, and there 
we left him. 

In the vestibule, however, he met a man who was tall, who 
wore a long coat, and a hat pulled down over his eyes. 

This man was discreet enough not to show himself. 

M. Gerard went directly to him, but before he reached 
him he knew with whom he had to do. 

“Ah! it is you, Gibassier!” he said. 

“ Yes, it is 1, good Monsieur Gerard,” answered that astute 
rascal. 

“ And you come from ” 

“ Precisely.” 

“From ” repeated M. Gerard, who did not care to do 

anything reckless. 

“From the master, of course,” interrupted Gibassier, hur- 
riedly. 

This word “master” brought a contemptuous smile to 
the lips of the future deputy. 

He hesitated and compressed his lips, then resumed. 

“He has sent for me?” he asked. 

“ He sent me for you — yes,” Gibassier replied, 

^‘And you know why?” 

“I have not the least idea.” 

“Can it be in. regard to ” 

He hesitated. 

“Oh, go on,” said Gibassier; “you know you can trust 
me — I am jtist the same as yourself.” 

“Can it be in regard to Sarranti?” 

“I think it very probable.” 


306 IlOSE-DE-NOEL. 

IS'ot oii]\^ did Gerard lower his voice, but he turued very 
pale, as he asked: 

Will the execution fixed for to-morrow be deferred?” 
do not think so. I know that orders have been given 
to Monsieur de Paris to be ready at three o’clock, and the 
condemned has been taken to the Conciergerie.” 

M. Gerard sighed heavily. 

AYill it not be possible to postpone until to-morrow what 
he wishes me to do to-day?” he asked. 

Oh,” answered Gibassier, ‘‘ that can’t be done.” 
is an important matter, then?” 

Indeed it is.” 

M. Gerard looked Gibassier square in the eyes. 

“ And yet you pretend that you know nothing about it?” 
swear I do not.” 

presume I may take time to put on my hat?” 

By all means. Monsieur Gerard; the evenings are getting 
a little cool, and you might take cold.” 

M. Gerard took up his hat. 
am ready,” he said. 

‘^Then we will be off,” answered Gibassier. 

At the street door o. fiacre was waiting. 

On seeing this fiacre , which, like all carriages of that de- 
scription, suggested a hearse, M. Gerard shivered. 

^‘Get in,” he said to Gibassier; will follow,” 

But Gibassier opened the door, and, stepping back court- 
eously, insisted on Gerard entering first, he following, after 
saying a few words to the coachman. 

The fiacre started on the road to Paris, Gibassier having 
decided to change the route drawn out by Salvator, suppos 
ing that the place to which he took M. Gerard was a matter 
of little consequence, provided that he took him, 

“At all events,” said Gerard to himself, who was reassured 
by the slow pace at which the horses traveled, “if the busi- 
ness is of importance, there is no great hurry about it.” 

And with this judicious reflection he relapsed into the most 
profound silence, which was not interrupted by his com- 
panion. 

It was Gibassier who was the first to speak. 

“Of what are you thinking so earnestly, dear Monsieur 
Gerard?” he asked. 

“I was thinking, I must confess,” answered M. G§rard, 

that this was really a very strange proceeding.” 

“It troubles you, I see.” 

, “It excites my curiosity, that is all.” 


EOSE-DE-J^OEL. 


207 


If I were in your place I should not give it a second 

ought.’’ 

And why not, pray?” 

l/‘Oh, for a very simple reason— but I said if I were in 
your place.” 

‘‘Yes, I know that: but why do you use that phrase?” 

“Because, if my conscience were as pure as yours I should 
feel myself so worthy of Fortune’s favors that I should not 
dread any hard hits from her.” 

“Of course — of course,” murmured M, Gerard, shaking 
his head sadly; “ but Fortune plays people scurvy tricks some- 
times, and knowing this as well as I do, I am not always easy 
in my mind.” 

“dJpon my word, had you lived in the time of Thales, 
Greece, instead of having seven sages, would have had eight, 
dear Monsieur Gerard, and you would yourself have written 
this fine line: 

‘ For every event the sage is prepared.’ 

Notice, please, that I say ‘prepared,’ not resigned, for it 
strikes me that, though you may be prepared, you are not 
resigned. Yes, you are right,” continued Gibassier, in his 
most solemn and sententious tone. “ Fortune does play scurvy 
tricks sometimes. And that is why the ancients, who knew 
very well what they were about, often represented her as 
seated on a serpent; which signified that she was far above 
prudencCb Still, if I were in your place, 1 repeat, I should 
not disturb myself. What can happen to you? You were 
fortunate enough to become an orphan at an early age, con- 
sequently you need not fear losing your parents, nor being 
compromised by them. You are not married, therefore you 
need not dread losing your wife, or being deceived by her. 
You are a millionaire, and the larger part of your fortune r 
so well invested that no notary can ruin you and no great 
failure strip you of your possessions. You have health, that 
virtue of the body; you have virtue, that health of the soul. 
You have the respect and consideration of your fellow citi- 
zens. Your chevalier’s cross of the Legion of Honor, given 
as a reward for your humanity, is only waiting the signatures 
—this is a secret, but I tell it to you in confidence. And 
finally, Moniieur Jackal holds you in especial esteem; for 
twice each week, no matter how much occn])ied he may be, 
he receives you in his private office and has a long conversa- 
tion with you. You are in receipt, in a word, of the just 


208 


KOSE-DE-KOEL. 


recompense of fifty years of philanthropy and probity. What 
more can you ask? What can you fear? Say!” 

‘‘Who can say?” sighed Gerard. “The unknown, possi- 
bly.” 

“ That is precisely it — the unknown! We will say no more 
about it — we will talk of other things.” 

M. Gerard made a little sign which signified, “Talk of 
what you will, provided tliat I am not expected to reply.” 

Gibassier evidently accepted this sign as a consent, for he 
continued: 

“Yes, we will talk of something livelier, which will not be 
difficult, I fancy. You had some friends to dinner to day, 
dear Monsieur Gerard? You will notice that I call you dear 
Monsieur Gerard, because you occasionally address me as 
your dear Monsieur Gibassier,” 

Gerard nodded. 

Gibassier began again: 

“You gave them a good dinner, T presume?” 

“I think I may say, without boasting, that I did.” 

“I am sure of it, judging from the odors that came up 
from the kitchen to the hall where 1 was waiting for you.” 

“I did my best,” answered Gerard, modestly. 

“And you dined in the grounds — on the lawn?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ That must have been delightful! Was there any sing- 
ing?” 

“The dessert was just about to be laid on the table when 
you arrived.” 

“ Yes; I fell like a bomb into this delightful reunion; it 
was like Banquo, or the Commandant in ‘Don Giovanni.’” 

“That is very true,” and Gerard, as he spoke, tried to 
smile. 

“You must admit, though, dear Monsieur Gerard, that it 
was a little your fault.” 

“In what way?” 

“ Why, if you had done me the favor of inviting me with 
your guests, I will wager my existence that I should have 
been installed at your dinner-table, and should not have in- 
terrupted you in the middle of your feast.” 

“ Please believe, dear Monsieur Gibassieiy” Gerard hastened 
to say, “ that I regret my forgetfulness more than I can tell 
you; but I assure you that the omission was not intentional, 
and I trust you will both forgive and forget it, and that you 
will allow mo to repair it on any day most agreeable to your- 
self.” 


ROSE-DE-JfOEL, 


^09 


: no!” answered Gibassier, sadly; ^^no! I am seriously 

wended with you.” 

V ‘‘Withme?” 

‘‘Yes; you have wounded me to the heart, and you know,” 
continued Gibassier, carrying his hand with a pathetic gesture 
to liis breast, “ wounds of tlie heart are mortal. Alas! another 
illusion has vanished, another black leaf has unfolded in the 
already too somber book of my life. 0 friendship! light and 
inconstant friendship, which Lord Byron so falsely calls 
‘ love without wings,’ how many woes you have caused, and 
how many woes you will still cause in this world!” 

After this long sentence, to which M. Gerard paid little 
attention, the ex-convict pulled out a yellow ^ilk handker- 
chief, and pretended to dry his eyes. 

The philanthropist believed him to be really wounded, and 
began a series of consolations and excuses. 

But Gibassier started oft again. 

“Modern society must be thoroughly bad,” he said, “for 
we have no examples of friendship to oppose to those of the 
ancients, like Orestes and Pylades— like Damon and Pythias, 
for example — oh! we live in an age of iron, dear Monsieur 
Gerard.” 

Here the coachman drew up, and jumping from his box, 
came to the carriage door. 

“ We are at the fearriere d’Enfer, sir,” he said. 

“ Ah! we are at the Barriere d’Enfer, are we? Well, well, 
the drive was not a long one. How long have we been?” and 
he pulled out his watch. “An hour and a quarter, upon my 
word. We have arrived, dear Monsieur Gerard.” 

“ But,” answered that gentleman, “^this is not the Rue 
de Jerusalem, it seems to me.” 

“ Who said we were going to the Rue de Jerusalem? It 
was not I,” said Gibassier. 

“Where are we going, then?” asked the philanthropist, in 
astonishment. 

“ 1 am going about my own business,” answered the ex- 
convict, “and I advise you to do the same.” 

“But I have no business in Paris,” cried M. Gerard. “I 
did not wish to come liere.” 

“ So much the worse, for if it had happened that you 
wished to come to the capital to-day on business, and if this 
business chanced to be in this part of the city, you could now 
attend to it.” 

“ What does this mean. Monsieur Gibassier?” asked M. 


ROSE-DE-KOEL. 


^lo; 

Gerard, straightening himself up, You are certainly trifling 
with me!’^ 

It certainly has very much that airP answered the ex* 
convict, choking with laughter. 

Then Monsieur Jackal does not expect me,” cried G4rard,, 
in a rage, 

‘^Not only does he not expect you, but I can even say that 
if you were to call upon him at this hour he would be[ greatly 
astonished.” 

Do you mean that you have been playing a joke on me, 
you miserable scoundrel?” said M. G&ard, his native inso«^ 
lence returning as his fears vanished, 

‘‘I have, indeed, and now we are quits!” 

But I never did you any harm, Gibassier. Why have 
you played so poor a joke on me?” cried Gerard, 

Never did me any harm?” cried Gibassier. ^^He says he 
never did me any harm! And of what have we been talking 
ever since we left Vanvres, if not of your black ingratitude? 
You give a dinner gastronomical and political; you invite 
to this festivity your most ordinary acquaintances, and say 
nothing to your tender, devoted friend — ^your Py lades, your 
Damcn, your other self, in short. May the gods forgive you! 
As to myself, I concluded that the best way for me to avenge 
the insult was in the same way that the insult had been 
offered. You deprived me of my dinner; I have deprived 
you of yours. What do you say to my plan?” 

And, shutting the carriage door, he added: 

‘‘I took the coachman at four o’clock precisely, and as I 
do not wish you to be cheated, I tell you this. As to the price, 
it was five francs per hour, just as long as you choose to keep 
him.” 

‘‘What!” cried M. Gerard, who could never forget hia 
early lessons of economy, “you do not ihtend to pay the 
man?” 

“If I should pay him,” answered Gibassier, “where would 
the joke come in?” 

And, bowing with exaggerated respect, he said: 

“May we soon meet again, good Monsieur Gerard!” and he 
vanished . 

Gerard was thunderstruck, 

“Where shall I drive you, sir?” asked the coachman. 
“ You know I was taken at four o’clock, and at five franca 
the hour. The return counted even if the fiacre ^YSLS empty. 

Gerard decided that it was useless to get into a rage with 


ROSE-DE-NOEL. 


211 


ihis man — besides he was not to blame in any way. Gibassier 
TV,as^ therefore, the only person with whom he could quarrel. 

“Back to Vanvres,”he said; “but five francs an hour 
means quicker driving than yours,” 

“ You can dismiss me here, sir, if you choose,” said the 
coachman. “I should like it just as well, for there is going 
to be a storm.” 

M. Gerard put his head out of the window and looked at the 
sky. Clouds were gathering rapidly overhead, and there 
were ominous sounds of distant thunder. 

“No; I will keep you,” said good M. Gerard; “and now 
to Vanyres, my friend, and as quickly as possible.” 

“I will do as well as I can, sir,” answered the coachman, 
“but the poor animals have but four legs, you know,” 
and, clambering back to his box, he turned his face toward 
Vanvres. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

WHAT GERARD FOUHD, OR DID NOT FIND, ON HIS RETURN 
TO VANVRES. 

M. Gerard, alone, in one corner of the carriage, and 
drawn by two tired horses, had ample time to lose himself in 
a sea of conjecture. 

His first idea was to drive to M. Jackal’s and demand 
satisfaction for his ageuPs very poor joke. But M. Jackal’s 
tone in speaking to Gerard was never of the most agreeable, 
and the time he passed with the Chief of Police was, as a 
rule, the most disagreeable moments in his life. 

He would look like a sulky schoolboy, coming to make to 
the head master a complaint against a comrade. 

For, although Gerard resented the title of comrade, as ap- 
plied to Gibassier, he was none the less obliged to admit to 
himself that the more he rejected this title the more, like the 
rock of Sisyphus, did it roll back to him. He decided, there- 
fore, as we have seen, to return to Vanvres. 

He had seen M. Jackal the previous evening, and the time 
would come soon enough when he must see him again; for, 
as Gibassier had gracefully reminded him, he was obliged to 
present himself in the office of the Chief of Police twice each 
week. 

Then a sudden thought occurred to him, that there might 
be danger for him at Vanvres. 

Specious as were the reasons given by Gibassier, M. Gerard 


212 


ROSE-T)E-XOEL. 


felt that Gibassier had never believed himself to be enough 
his friend to be wounded as deeply as he pretended at his 
neglect. 

There was certainly some mystery in the affair. 

Now, in M. Gerardos situation — when a man was on the 
point of paying with his head fora crime Gerard had himself 
committed — anything that was obscure was dangerous. 

He was, therefore, wild to get back to Vanvres, and at the 
same time afraid. 

The horses that came from Van vres to the Barriere d’En- 
fer in an hour and a quarter were, on account of their fa- 
tigue, an hour and a half in going from the Barriere d’Enfer 
back to Van vres. 

Thestorm broke: lightning flashed, thunder roared, and rain 
fell — but the horses went no faster. 

Just as the clock struck ten, M. Gerard drove up to his 
house, and stepping out, paid and dismissed the coachman, 
and then turned toward his house. It was in absolute dark- 
ness. Although the shutters stood wide open, there was not 
a light in any window. 

This was not astonishing: it was late; the guests had un- 
doubtedly departed, and the servants were in the offices. 

The offices looked out on the garden. 

M. Gerard went up the steps, and it seemed to him, al- 
though everything was dark, that the door was open. 

He extended his hand; the door was open, as he sup- 
posed. 

It was very imprudent in the servants to leave, on such a 
night, both shutters and door wide open, and M. Gerard de- 
termined to read them a lecture. 

He went in, and found the darkness more intense than 
ever. 

He went softly to the porter’s room; this door was like the 
other, set wide open. 

M. Gerard called the porter. There was no reply. 

M. Gerard felt his way further along the passage and found 
the staircase. Here he stopped and called his valet. 

There was no sound to be heard. 

* They are eating in the kitchen,” said M. Gerard, aloud, 
as if by saying it aloud he made it more certain. 

At this moment came a clap of thunder, and a flash of 
lightning so vivid that M. Gerard could see that the door 
leading to the garden was as wide open as the one on the 
street. 


ROSE-DE-N-QEL. ,213 

\ ^'iTpon my word!” he murmured, ^^one would say that ifc 
was a deserted house.” 

He felt his way to' the end of the hall, and there caught 
the ^eam of a lamp burning in the offices. 

‘‘Just as I thought,” he said; “the rascals are there.” 

And, grumbling loudly, he went to the kitchen. But, on 
entering it, he stood still. The table was laid for the servants’ 
supper, but the servants had disappeared. 

“ This is very strange!” he said aloud. 

He took up the lamp and went back to the dining- 
room. 

It was empty. 

He went into every room on the lower floor: not a human 
being was to be found. He went up the stairs to the next 
floor, which was as deserted as the first. He called. A dis- 
mal echo was the only reply. 

Passing a mirror, M. Gerard drew back in terror. He was 
afraid of himself, he was so deadly pale. 

He descended the stairs slowly, and clutching at the rail- 
ing as he went; hislimbs bent under him. Finally he reached 
the hall, and went through it and out on the balcony to look 
at the lawn. 

But as he lifted the lamp high above his head that he 
might see, a gust of wind came and blew out the light. 

M. G6rard was now in utter darkness. A terror which he 
could not comprehend chilled him to the heart. He was 
tempted to fly to his chamber and barricade himself there, 
when suddenly he uttered a cry of horror, and stopped as if 
his feet were rooted to the stones. 

The sky was white with lightning, and in that flash M. 
Gerard had seen the table overturned and the cloth floating 
in the wind like a winding-sheet. 

Who could have overturned the table on the lawn? Per- 
haps he had not seen correctly, the flash had been so rapid. 

He went down the steps very slowly, wiping the sweat of 
agony from his brow, and went toward the table, which 
seemed a dark mass in the obscurity. 

Just as he extended his hand to substitute the sense' of 
touch for that of sight, it seemed to him that the eartb was 
sinking under him. 

He started back. 

There came another flash — the whole heavens were illumi- 
nated, and M. Gerard saw, or fancied he saw, at his feet a 
deep hole in the form of a grave. Something like a cry 


2U 


ROSE-BE-NOEL. 


escaped irom his oppressed breast, but it was not a human 
sound—it was both frightened and frightful. 

‘‘No, no; it is impossible!” murmured Gerard—^'it is im- 
possible!” 

Then as the lightning, that alone could remove his uncer- 
tainty, did not again appear, he fell on his knees. It seemed 
to him that his knees touched fresh soil. He felt with his 
hand. 

His eyes had not deceived him; near this pile of earth, 
freshly turned over, was a deep grave. 

His teeth chattered with terror, 

“Oh!” he said aloud, “T am lost! In my absence the 
grave has been discovered.” 

He extended his arm to its full length without being able 
to feel the bottom, 

“And the body has been carried off!” he cried. 

Then he placed his hand on his mouth to prevent the 
escape of the words. 

And through his fingers, his voice was heard in a series of 
bitter, agonized sobs. 

He stood up and said, over and over again: 

“ What is to be done? Oh! my God, what is to be done?” 

He could not help speaking aloud: 

“I must fly! I must fly!” 

Then, mad with terror, bewildered, faint, sick, he rushed 
forward without knowing where he was going. At the end 
of ten feet he stumbled over some object, and ten steps further 
on, fell to the ground. 

Something like a groan was heard. M. G6rard, who had 
again struggled to his feet, and was about to continue his 
flight, stopped short. 

This groan came from a man. 

Who was the man? What was he doing there? He could, 
of course, be none other than an enemy. The next thought 
of M. Gerard was how to get rid of this man. 

He looked around wildly for some weapon — there was none. 
Then he remembered the shed and the gardener’s tools. He 
rushed toward it, and armed himself with the first thing his 
hand touched, which was a shovel, and came back as terrible 
as was Cain when he went forth to kill Abel. 

A flash of lightning guided him. He lifted the shovel 
wildly. 

“Is that you, good Monsieur Gerard?” said a thick voice. 
“ I wish you would drive these bees away.” 

Gerard stopped short. 


EOSE-DE-KOEL. 


215 


The voice indicated the most complete intoxication. 

Oh,” said Gerard to himself, ‘‘it is only some drunken 
fellow!” 

“Just think of it!” stammered the man, raising himself on 
one knee. “ On account of a little boy I killed, so long ago 
that I forgot all about it, they buried me alive- — they rubbed 
me all over with honey and let their bees loose upon me. 
Fortunately you came, dear Monsieur Gerard,” continued tlie 
drunken man, mixing the reality with his dream — “fort- 
unately you came with your shovel and delivered me. Ah! I 
shall be always grateful to you, dear Monsieur Gerard; I shall 
never forget your kindness if I should live a hundred 
years!” 

M. Gerard by this time realized that this drunken man was 
one of his recent guests. It was the agriculturist. How 
much did he know? What had he seen? What could he 
tell? 

The entire future of the philanthropist was in the answers 
to these questions. 

“Where the devil are all the others?” asked the agri- 
culturist. 

“ That is precisely what I want to know,” answered M. 
Gerard. 

“ DonT answer me in that way! Tell the truth. Where 
are they, I say?” 

“You ought to know. Try and think. What did you 
do after I went away?” 

“ I told you, good Monsieur Gerard, I was devoured by the 
bees.” 

“But before that? Don’t you remember anything before 
that?” 

“ It seems that I had killed a child.” 

M. Gerard started, and then swayed to and fro on his 
feet. 

“Come, now,” said the drunken man, “is it you, or I, 
that can’t stand steady?” 

“It is you. But wait a bit, and as soon as you have told 
me what happened after I was called away, I will give you 
my arm.” 

“Ah! I remember,” said the agriculturist — “I remember. 
Just wait a moment. Somebody came to tell you that Mon- 
sieur Jackal wanted you to go with him to see that infamous 
Sarranti’s head cut off.” 

^‘Yes/’ replied Gerard, making a superhuman effort tg 


m 


ROSE-DE-HOEL. 


control himself, that he might obtain some information from 
this brute — ‘‘but after I left?’’ 

After you left? Wait — wait a little* Ahl I remember! 
The young man came that you sent/’ 

said M. Gerard, snatching at this clew; ^^a young 
man that I sent?” 

Yes; a handsome young fellow, dressed in evening costume 
— black suit and white cravat.” 

And he was alone?” 

I did not say he was alone. He had a dog with him — a 
great animal, that was mad. I ran away, but the earth caved 
in — that confounded dog had undermined it.” 

Where?” 

Under the table,” answered the agriculturist. Of course 
I fell where the ground was undermined, and it was then 
that the bees attacked me. It was well you came as you 
did.” 

^^Go on,” said Gerard, coaxingly; ‘Hry and remember 
more.” 

The drunken man began to count on his fingers. 

^^No,”he said; there was Monsieur Sarranti, Monsieur 
Jackal, the young man with the white cravat, and the dog 
Bresil.” 

‘^Bresil! — Bresil!” cried M. Gerard, grasping the agri- 
culturist by the throat, ‘‘ Do you say that the name of the 
dog was Brasil?” 

Look out what you do! You are choking me! Help! — 
help!” 

‘^Ah!” said Gerard, falling on his knees, ‘^for God’s sake 
be quiet; do not make a noise.” 

“ Then let me go away — I am sick of being here.” 

Yes, by all means go away. I will show you to the door.” 

** But you are drunk, too,”" muttered the drunken man. 

Why do you say that?” 

Because you can’t stand steadily on your legs.” 

This was quite true. Instead of sustaining the agricultur- 
ist, M. Gerard required to be supported himself. 

With anguish of mind, and torture of body, M. Gerard 
dragged the agriculturist through the gate, and started him 
down the street. He saw him reeling along muttering to 
himself: 

“Those cursed bees!” 

But when his figure was lost in the darkness, and his voice 
was heard no more, M. Gerard turned again to his house, 
He shut all the doors^ and went down intQ the garden; he 


ROSE-DE-I^OEL. 217 

went to the excavation, and jumping into it, felt about with 
his hands. 

The grave was empty to the touch. 

A vivid flash of lightning showed him that his sense ol 
touch had not deserted him. M. G6rard did not hear the 
thunder, he did not feel the rain — saw only the yawning 
grave that had given up its dead. He seated himself on its 
edge, with his feet hanging within, like the grave-digger in 

Hamlet.’’ He folded his arms, bowed his head, and tried 
to think, tried to grasp the situation. During this brief 
absence of two hours, caused by a frivolous jest, all his dear- 
est hopes had been dashed to the ground. All the agony he 
had undergone, with the hope of concealing his crime, had 
been fruitless. There remained only, we will not say remorse, 
but the recollection of having been a murderer, and the fear of 
the scaffold. And at what a moment had the thunderbolt fallen ! 
Just when he thought he had reached the pinnacle of honor 
and gratified ambition ! That very morning, in his thoughts, 
he had seen himself seated in the Chamber of Deputies; that 
night, with his feet hanging inside of this grave, he saw him- 
self in the dock, with a gendarme on either side, and holding 
his head low to avoid meeting the inquisitorial gaze of his 
judge and the scorn of the crowd, who anxious to see 
^^the good man,” M. G6rard. Then, in the distance, he 
beheld, near the fountain on the square, the outstretched 
arms of that terrible machine that pursues murderers in their 
dreams. 

This philanthropist was not a man to give up all hope. 
We have seen how ready he was to commit a second crime to 
save him from the consequences of the first, when he lifted 
the shovel against the agriculturist. But it is not every day 
that a man, however inclined in that direction, can make the 
road clear before him by committing a murder. 

Gerard saw but two things to do: the first was to fly 
without an instant’s delay, without saying a word to any one, 
just as his guests had fled, just as his servants had vanished, 
and to ride at full speed until his horse fell under him, 
and then to mount another, and thus reach the sea where he 
could take a ship to America. 

^ Yes, but he could not do this without a passport. At his 
first stopping-place no new horse would be given him without 
his showing his passport. The police would be notified and 
he would be taken to prison. 

’ The one other thing that he could do was to go to M, 


218 


EOSE-DE-NOEL. " ^ ^ v 

Jackal, relate to him the whole affair, and abide by his 
counsel. 

The clock struck eleven. AVith a fast horse — and M. 
Gerard had two in his stable — he could be at the Prefecture 
in half an hour. This was certainly his wiser course. 

M. Gerard started up and ran to the stable, where he har- 
nessed the best of the two horses, locked the door after him, 
and, leaping to the saddle with the agility of a young man, 
buried his spurs deep in the sides of the animal, and without 
a hat, and without heeding the wind and the rain pelting his 
bare head, rode as fast as possible into Paris. 

Let us leave the assassin galloping through the darkness, 
and follow Salvator as he bore away in triumph the bones of 
the victim. 

The continuation of ‘‘ Rose-de-Noel,” entitled ‘‘ The 
Chief of Police,^ -by Alexander Dumas, is published in The 
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